Dear Ireland,

THE letter I never sent! There is a question. Yes, I wrote many and never sent them (hope this isn’t one). Others never got sent ’cause I never wrote them. There are so many times I get infuriated at the hospital waiting lists, at A&E, the homeless.

I get this urge to do something — at least to write a letter to the newspapers, the TDs, the Taoiseach, the President and, yes, the Pope. Often, too often, it doesn’t get done or it doesn’t get sent. Then we have the bankers (have to check my phone didn’t change that word), the tracker mortgages, child abusers, and creepy men. I never sent that letter, like I never wrote the letter to my godfather. He was ill. I knew he was very ill. He loved me, I loved him. He was a great big bundle of laughter who often, very often, told (with great pride) funny stories about his god-daughter. He would have loved a letter. I was 11. I could write. I just never did.

The letter I am now writing is a letter to my birth country. How wonderful it is, how beautiful. The soft rain, the warm breeze, the gentle waves, the autumn leaves, the rolling hills, the handsome horses and the wonderful people.

I’m getting on (not old?) so I greatly appreciate the kindness of everyone.

My heart is filled with such joy to see our Irish children laughing, singing, dancing, or just running and jumping with health and happiness, and it fills my heart with happiness to be with my family and their families and people we consider as dear as family members.

I never sent this letter because some people will cry out against it because of the awful things that are happening, and this is a positive letter rather than a negative one.

Thank you Sunday Independent for encouraging me to write and send the letter I never wrote to Ireland. So glad I’m Irish. Elizabeth Moloney

Dublin 4