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He looks nothing like my mother’s people, who are all tall, with long arms, and I wonder if we have not come to the wrong house. He has a square body like the men my sisters sometimes draw, but his eyebrows are white, to match his hair. A big, loose hound lets out a few rough, halfhearted barks, then sits on the step and looks back at the doorway, where the man has come out to stand.

I see myself looking out from the back seat, as wild as a tinker’s child, with my hair all undone, but my father, at the wheel, looks just like my father.

On the housefront, tall, shiny windowpanes reflect our coming. “They’re weeping willows,” he says, and clears his throat. At the end of the lane, there’s a white house with trees whose limbs are trailing the ground.

On either side, thick hedges are trimmed square. I wonder if they live in an old farmhouse or a new bungalow, whether they will have an outhouse or an indoor bathroom, with a toilet and running water.Īn age, it seems, passes before the car slows and turns in to a tarred, narrow lane, then slams over the metal bars of a cattle grid. Or he’ll make me clean out sheds and pick stones and pull ragweed and docks out of the fields. He will take me to town on the tractor and buy me red lemonade and crisps. I see another, less likely version of her, in an apron, pouring pancake batter into a frying pan, asking would I like another, the way my mother sometimes does when she is in good humor. I see a tall woman standing over me, making me drink milk still hot from the cow. I wonder what it will be like, this place belonging to the Kinsellas. I shake the plaits out of my hair and lie flat on the back seat, looking up through the rear window. My father throws his hat on the passenger seat, winds down the window, and smokes. We pass through the village of Shillelagh, where my father lost our red shorthorn in a game of forty-five, and on past the mart in Carnew, where the man who won her sold her not long afterward. It is a hot August day, bright, with patches of shade and greenish sudden light along the road. Early on a Sunday, after first Mass in Clonegal, my father, instead of taking me home, drives deep into Wexford toward the coast, where my mother’s people came from.

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