Frost on my mind.
“Nothing gold can stay…”
The red tailed hawk builds a nest in the adjacent orchard, another hawk on the next tree.
Lights flash. Warning signs.
In deep water the octopus stretches its tentacles and embraces the current.
Badges and postcards litter the desk.
A letter from an ex-girlfriend’s mother to my aunt and uncle, written on the occasion of my grandmother’s death.
Years later I’d fall in love with this woman’s daughter.
Two weeks after I moved to California my father hit a hole-in-one.
Ancient scripts from Old Ireland.
My mother’s cousin wrote, “You would not believe a father could say such things about his daughter.”
Beechmont Lodge, Navan, County Meath: Sunday.
A photograph of my mother as a child with her cousins, also relatives of James Joyce—John and Desmond Murray.