Writer
“In the stillness of our West Cork garden in February, I could hear nothing; and the sound was deafening. I pushed up against it, leaning into its vastness, and listened harder.”
I nestled the baby between us. When he settled into feeding, I closed my eyes. Then I heard footsteps in the hall behind me, not more than ten feet away. Suddenly I was wide-awake.
“You call yourself a mother, the voice sneered. He’ll be dead before you find him and it will be All. Your. Fault.”
The joyous, drunken raucousness of the Irish holiday season was upon us and, even with the storm clouds and the early evening spreading out against the sky, our village seemed festive rather than pensive.
