After school, as an antidote to the long winter, Mum makes us sweet milk coffee. It’s the eighties and it isn’t called a latté yet. The milk boils and binds to the bottom of the saucepan. As we drink, it thaws our fingers that are red and wind-stung.
I’m walking through the city and I hear the bells of the Cathedral pealing. Whenever I hear a bell toll, I think about the Angelus boy. I wonder if there was something I could have done to change his fate. Or was it already too late by the summer of 1981? Even then I had the curious feeling that a current was dragging him down-river, with nothing to grasp onto.