Cottage Life

Bríd rang at half eleven and by the time we were done the light had changed and the bucket was still in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Tom came by with Bess around three, when the sun was still on the garden wall. Neither of us said much. It was enough.

I bought new hinges in Tralee. The repair took most of Saturday. The gate works now, sort of, if you lift it slightly.

The novel has been on the arm of the chair since November. Bríd's letter exists only as an intention. The kitchen tile is still cracked.

Four books in three weeks, two cups of cold tea I forgot about, and the strange gift January makes of the dark.

Donal rang at half ten on Christmas morning to tell me it was dry in Cork, as if I'd want to know that.

Bess had been in the garden since before eight. By the time I noticed, she'd already made a decision about the vegetable patch.

Donal rang while I had my hands in the onions, and by the time I got off the phone I'd done it wrong according to him three separate times.

The bread didn't rise the first three times I tried it this winter, and I'm still not entirely sure what I was doing wrong.

The cracked teacup with the blue rim is still in the press. I keep meaning to throw it out. I never do.

The turf Eoin dropped last week is still sitting in the plastic sacks. Today felt like the day.

The fuchsia had grown so far over the path I'd been stepping sideways past it since August.