Walking on the gritted icy path to the wake Rose said, “Your granddad, my brother, he,” she squeezed my arm, “was a total hollow bastard.”
“You were so good caring for him,” I said. “We all offer something. Your driving was helpful.” She patted my arm with a felted pink mitten.
“Well, what does he offer for his own wake — bad stories? No food in his house, I’m shocked you found grit.” “See? He offers traction.”
© 2011 Michael Donoghue