Foster

by Claire Keegan

‘Da,’ I say. ‘The trees.’ ‘What about ’em?’ ‘They’re sick,’ I say. ‘They’re weeping willows,’ he says, and clears his throat.

I wonder why my father lies about the hay. He is given to lying about things that would be nice, if they were true.

‘Ah, the women are nearly always right, all the same,’ he says. ‘Do you know what the women have a gift for?’ ‘What?’ ‘Eventualities. A good woman can look far down the line and smell what’s coming before a man even gets a sniff of it.’