Ladies do it best and know how to dress proper.
Shimmering Light (Short Story)
Dedicated to the Memory of Mark Romero. Angler, Artist and Jazz Roadie.
The first of the autumn rains had arrived a week earlier, washing the grime and dirt from the land and lanes, flushing out the river, refreshing the countryside after the summer drought.
Michael took the poker and stabbed at the embers, cajoling them to glow and yield more heat. An open peat fire is a place of gathering in many a farmhouse. He stoked as his father had, and in time his son would lord over the hearth, providing warmth for his own family.
‘There’s softness in the air, a drop of rain this evening, Mary.’
His wife, grey now, stooped from years of toil, turned and glanced at the window.
‘You are rarely wrong, Michael. I’ll make a sandwich for you for the morrow. I can hear her calling.’
Michael laughed. He tapped his pipe on his knee, scattering ash onto the floor. Still fearful of the scolding tongue of his once house-proud wife, he scuffed his boots across the flagstones, grinding ash into receptive crevices.
‘She may be calling, but don’t I always come back to you? It’s in my blood, was in my father’s, and God knows, young Patrick’s itch for fishing is worse than mine.’
Mary sliced homemade brown bread, not long out of the oven, soft centre, and crisp crust.
‘Ham sandwiches, Michael?’
‘Aye, and don’t be heeding the doctor’s whinging. Lay the butter on thick.’
Otter wrote mine. I better support his.
It’s the end of the trout season, and that bloody time of the year when the Bishop is squealing for the paperwork. Feck him, I’m grabbing a large one and sitting down with this novelette. Something about an old man. Better not be about me.