We hung string lights in the garden the other night. They twist around the washing line we never used, trembling in the Galway breeze. I’d have liked a volley of lights; enveloping the apple tree, criss-crossing the shed, a single spark on every petal that falls. It would add dimension, highlight where ours ends, and beyond begins. But this will do, for now. Burnt sugar lingers in the air, a little offshoot of scent wending through the open window from where I left the biscuits in the oven a minute too long. Silence. No chatter of voices, no clamour of life in this green. A two-person fair. While washing dishes I fixate on the clothesline, swaying visibly now that it has things to sway. Ten blinking lights like a line of owls, Keeping us company in the dark.
Laoise Ní Raghallaigh is an Irish writer, with an interest in long-form fiction and essays. Her work has previously been published in school magazines and local commemorative journals. She is currently studying Creative Writing at NUI Galway.