the dublin packet*

He watched a young woman tap at her phone, and swipe and slide down the notifications, much as a child down a slide – or perhaps, rather more surreptitiously, down a bannister of uncles and aunts.

And she seemed quite occupied by the data that slipped between packet and packet – maybe lettered in red, or maybe in blue; or just some truly gone and crazed yellow.

And although he invented the connection, and the fact of her interest, he couldn’t help wondering if the pub next door was an omen in good taste – or a bad joke in terrible.

And still he resisted the idea that all had to be lost.  And still he resisted through his marvellous capacity of loving and staying and believing in the best that others might choose one day to offer: not just broadly to the whirled, but closely to his being and seeing and doing; closely to the treasures of his heart.


* All places were, and incidents happened, as described; all interpretations and connections made belong exclusively to the racing mind of their author.

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