I met Aoife on a wet Tuesday in Dublin, the kind of rain that doesn’t fall so much as hover around you until you give up and accept it. We were both…

The last time I saw her was at Heuston Station, standing beneath the big clock with a paper cup of tea cooling in her hands. She had always been early for trains…

I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside Pearse Station, the kind of Dublin rain that doesn’t fall so much as settle on you. I had missed my Dart to Blackrock…

I met him on a Tuesday evening in a queue outside Grogan’s, both of us pretending we weren’t cold. It was one of those Dublin evenings where the rain doesn’t fall so…

I was thirty-one when I learned that a wedding speech can be more dangerous than a confession booth. It happened in Dublin, on a wet Saturday in October, the kind of day…

I used to keep a diary in the bottom drawer of our bedside locker in Stoneybatter, under old ESB bills and a scarf she had once lent me and never asked back…

My father was seventy-eight when I found the shoebox under his bed. I had gone to his little house in Cabra to clear out a leak-stained wardrobe after a bad winter, and…

I found it on a wet Tuesday evening in Rathmines, the kind of evening when the rain seems to come sideways and everyone on the bus looks personally betrayed by the weather.…

I used to think a marriage ended in one loud moment, with a slammed door or a suitcase thrown open on the bed. Ours ended quietly, on a wet Thursday evening in…

I met her because the bus never came. That is the simplest way to tell it, though it leaves out the rain hammering sideways across Donegal, the way the sky had turned…