If this were a month ago, you'd be raking leaves into mounds like freshly buried bodies, remembering Padraig jumping in the piles Da had made. Just for the hell of it, you jumped too, forgetting—until your knees screamed—that they were in their autumn now.
If it were a fortnight ago, you'd be telling your son, the one you named Padraig after your brother, how Uncle Paddy kept a pet rat under his bed. He named it Pied Piper, because he thought it was hilarious to call it after the character who led the rats from Hamelin. Your son had never heard the fairytale, and you felt his ignorance as another notch in your belt of failures—the one you cinched around your waist every day.
If it were a week ago, you'd be pouring out the booze. Easy enough—drinks were kept for special occasions these days. A chilled Cloudy Bay at Easter. A fizzy American wine at Christmas, cheaper than champagne but just as good. And you thought that if this was ten years ago, you'd be laying in a crate of Guinness for your brother's visit instead of pouring out the few cans your son kept for after his shift. As the mucky liquid spiraled down the drain, the old smell made you think of the peat Da cut when he worked for Bord na Móna. It almost made you miss home—but not quite.
If it were yesterday, you'd be texting Paddy for his ETA.
If it were an hour ago, you'd be stirring his favorite Irish stew, adding dumplings that bobbed like men tossed a lifebuoy and wondering if it needed less salt.
If it were a minute ago, you'd be running to answer the phone.
But it's not.
Adele Evershed has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the
Net. Adele's published work includes two poetry chapbooks, Turbulence
in Small Places (Finishing Line Press), The Brink of Silence (Bottlecap
Press), a novella-in-flash, Wannabe (Alien Buddha Press), and a short
story collection, Suffer/Rage (Dark Myth Publisher).
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