A thin mist lies low across the fields to his left and the skim of river to his right. A mushroom smell of dampness creeps through the cracked quarterlight of his ancient Mercedes. The village is empty, the solitary streetlight flickers, undecided. The pub is shuttered and the church hulks in shadow. Along the Ashdown Road there’s a muted yellow glow from the clustered bungalows. Someone stands in a garden looking out at the road. He raises his hand as he passes but the person doesn’t return his salute and he feels foolish.
Angela would laugh at him for nodding at people as they walked in Dublin, saying Hello and Good morning and How are you to dog-walkers, deliverymen, every random stranger. But his father’s voice echoed always, his gentle cuff…
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The Simple Things (Digital) - 1 Issue, August 2024