An Account
by and published in Edition Eleven of Pomegranate
There was a hole in his left hand, remains of a gun wound.
“The bullet went straight through and out the other end”, my fat cousin told me.
Of course.
The skin grew back, over time.
I would find my uncle sometimes, as we laid on the mattress on the landing.
Stumbling across the creaky floor boards and past me, in nothing but a colourless t-shirt, his Irish bum cheeks hanging loosely to the toilet.
The men in Ireland liked to piss with the door open.