New Irish Writing: Wine Street
My father’s green hunting jacket still had his smell on it. It was way too big for me so I had to roll up the sleeves three times before my hands could see daylight. The last time I saw him wearing it was when he took me to Crick’s Bend, where the salmon were all funnelled into a stream only a couple of yards wide. Easy pickings but we didn’t catch anything. He’d gotten too tired and we came away after only a half an hour. He coughed all the way back to the car. That was probably the last thing we did together.
Source: independent.ie