“Wait!” Young George’s voice stops me. He jumps from where he’s been sitting on the floor of the library and rushes to my chair, climbs into my lap. “Start over. Say it again.” I laugh and tousle his red curls. “We’re only on page three.” “But if you start again, it will last longer.” I understand this logic. It’s why I wrote the book in the first place, to make it all last longer. I kiss my grandson’s round cheek. Growing up in the countryside, he’s as wild as the land and his parents’ farm of sheep and goats and cows. His wild red curls are an imitation of his grandfather Padraig’s in his
...more
