Father: Every Morning of His Life

Father: Every Morning of His Life The cup he took his tea from all those years was Army surplus, made of tin. It whirred to the spoon he wound in it 15 times per lump of sugar. We who slept in rooms just off the kitchen rose like ghosts to the winding of that spoon. In my house, now, mornings Sue’s the first downstairs. She scalds the leaves and wonders: Will the winding ever end? Donal Mahoney