Stories about the ordinary things that stay with us: a room, a voice, a meal, an object or a place. Written from Kerry, Ireland, but often travelling much further, these are personal essays about memory, belonging, friendship and the lives we make around one another.
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The Photograph in the Envelope
A brown envelope of old photographs opens into stories of family, politics, marriage and loss. Some names are remembered, some are crossed out, and one photograph needs no name at all.
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The Pound in the Drinks Press
The Dutch oak unit in our living room was where everything seemed to find a home. One day, clearing out the drinks press, I found a green pound note among the letters and papers. It had been given back for luck in 1971, and it was never spent.
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Anseo
For generations, the school day began with a name, a roll book and a familiar answer: “Anseo.” A look back at the handwritten records that quietly preserved generations of Irish schoolchildren — and something of their teachers too.
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It Won’t Be Long Now
A hospital gown, a long wait, a conversation about cruises and an unexpected encounter with policy. One ordinary hour on the way to an operating theatre.
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When I Hear That Song
A few notes can be enough. A sitting room, a school stage, a Saturday night in Limerick, a wedding, a phone call from one of my daughters — music has been quietly keeping pieces of my life for years.
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The Slackening Lead
Somewhere along the way, the dog came in from the yard, got comfortable in the kitchen and eventually found the sofa. A story about Rosie, Frasier, family life — and noticing for the first time that the dog who always pulled you along is beginning to slow down.
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The Gift Of A Story
A conversation after a Sunday run turns into a story about the rooms we carry in our heads — and an invitation into someone else’s. Miriam is going back to her grandparents’ house in Bavaria this November. Before she does, she’s going to tell me what she remembers.
