Taidgh Lynch
Collecting a Coffin The news arrived clickety-clackety. “All flights have been cancelled due to volcanic ash…” My mind took off to Alicante. Damo, my brother, had gone there on holiday with his mates. Wasn’t much of a swimmer. Drank too much. Went for a dip. Drowned. I imagined him lying in a dim-lit morgue, his favourite alligator boots still on, the smell of walnut and cedar lingering on his breath, a faint sliver of Spanish playing in his ears as he waited to come home. “What’s taking you so long, Sis?” At Gate 13, I sat, stared out wide windows, watched airlines grounded on the tarmacadam, struggled to find the sun on the horizon. Passengers swapped stories like stamps. “Where are you going?” “We’re having a family reunion.” “Have to be there by Friday to close the deal.” I went to the public toilets to freshen up. Brushed my teeth in front of the mirror as lava licked rocks, and clouds 62 | The Anti-Languorous Project
