1966
Nine-year-old me lies underwater, holding my breath in the big old bath that is almost deep enough to swim in. Breaking the skin of the water, I surface, and feel for the stopwatch and the button to press. I wipe my eyes. Three minutes, twenty-two seconds this time. Fourteen seconds longer than the last try but forty-five seconds short of my personal best.
Now I have to get dressed and go downstairs. Drying off, I feel lighter as I always do after this underwater ritual, relieved of something. I have limits, but I can stretch myself.
Down at the kitchen table, I take my place across from my big sister, Maeve, in front of the bowl of soup that’s been poured for me. Mammy’s silence is packed full of the sounds of her work at the stove: sizzling meat, bubbling potatoes, clattering pla
