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Copyright Seeing it First Hand 2026 | Theme by ThemeinProgress
Written by jackbrewis
forty-five years on, and the memory blows back through my skull like smoke from a tailpipe. that day rushing in. a breeze pushing cherry blossoms around the churchyard. petals swirl down on the stone. soft. useless. the incense finds my nostrils. a thin grey ghost of smoke curls up from the wick of a candle. […]
they were the only men who stayed. my fathers, the two who weren’t. Uncle Patrick — dark hair, long sideburns, a day’s stubble and a gentleness that surprised you. peppermint and tobacco, and the Mainstay snort underneath it. he drank too much and loved me tenderly, and I never felt the drink in how he
sitting in a bar on Rue Lepic with a glass of cheap pastis. the water hits the liquor and turns it cloudy; a yellow, curdled swirl. it tastes heavy—fennel, aniseed, a bitter medicine that catches the back of the throat. it hits the same way an old road hits your boots when you’ve tramped it
there she is behind the marked oak bar, that Irish angel with the black hair falling like midnight rain, serving up the warmest smile you ever saw, pulling a perfect pint, slow and creamy, her eyes shining like Dionysus himself in drag, pouring out the madness. red wine flowing free now, warm in the throat,
