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I’d met literally thousands of people, and that’s allowing for Irish hyperbole. In my years on the force, I encountered every type of
Trickster
Con man
Villain
Rogue.
And the years after I met the
Sad
Lonely
Depressed
Dispirited.
But few reached me like that old man. A song stirred in my memory, an early Emmylou, where she wails, laments, “A River for Him”.
If Johnny Duhan was the lyrics of my life, then she was the melody. As I approached the nursing home, my heart sank. It was the curtains on the front window. Hanging from a dropped rail, they were dull brown. As a man, I’m not really supposed to notice if they were clean.
I noticed.
They were lighting. That’s a Bohermore expression, lighting with the dirt. The name, St Jude’s, was on the door. The J had disappeared so i
