I first heard about Mr. Kavanagh from a notice taped to the window of a launderette in Phibsborough, the kind of handwritten notice you almost miss because it has curled at the…
We never meant to become known as the couple with the old dogs. At the start, it was only meant to be one quiet foster, something gentle after the house had gone…
I started writing the letters because I could not bear the quiet in my own flat. It was a small place in Phibsborough, above a pharmacy, and during those long months when…
I was in the post office near Phibsborough on a wet Tuesday morning, the kind of rain that seems to come at you sideways and make everyone look slightly defeated. I had…
The bicycle was older than me, older than my daughter, and, according to my father, “still younger than some of the grudges in Dublin.” It leaned for years against the back wall…
I met Marek on the coldest Tuesday I can remember in Dublin. The kind of evening where the air seemed to come up through the soles of your shoes, and every bus…
I first noticed her in the back pew of a small chapel near Glasnevin Cemetery, wearing a navy coat with a missing button and holding a folded tissue like it was a…
I was seventeen when I first noticed how quiet the courtyard had become. I lived with my mam in a block of flats near Dublin city centre, the kind of place where…
I was eleven when I found out my grandfather couldn’t read. Until then, I thought he was the cleverest man in Dublin. He could fix a kettle with a butter knife, tell…
I run a small flower shop off the North Circular Road, not far from Phibsborough, the sort of place people pass without noticing unless they need carnations for a school play, lilies…