![]() ![]() He will take me to town on the tractor and buy me red lemonade and crisps. I see another, less likely version of her, in an apron, pouring pancake batter into a frying pan, asking would I like another, the way my mother sometimes does when she is in good humor. I see a tall woman standing over me, making me drink milk still hot from the cow. I wonder what it will be like, this place belonging to the Kinsellas. I shake the plaits out of my hair and lie flat on the back seat, looking up through the rear window. ![]() My father throws his hat on the passenger seat, winds down the window, and smokes. We pass through the village of Shillelagh, where my father lost our red shorthorn in a game of forty-five, and on past the mart in Carnew, where the man who won her sold her not long afterward. It is a hot August day, bright, with patches of shade and greenish sudden light along the road. ![]() Early on a Sunday, after first Mass in Clonegal, my father, instead of taking me home, drives deep into Wexford toward the coast, where my mother’s people came from. ![]()
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