Curiosity, Sudden

That night, at supper, Ciaran stared down at the crude wooden bowls he’d carved for himself and his father years ago.

“Da,” he said, “tell me about Mam?”

Eoghan grunted. “What d’you want to know? I’ve told you everything I know.”

Ciaran knew that his mother was a foreigner from distant shores and she’d had the same red hair he did, and that she’d been a weaver par excellence, but that was all he knew.

“What was she like? Was she funny? Did she smile like me?” Ciaran asked.

Eoghan stared at his son, brows furrowed. “Why the sudden curiosity?”