I was nineteen when I stopped believing in God.

Father Dolan looked over to me, waved, and with a toothy yellowed grin, walked over, almost as if he spotted the stubborn cow that left the herd.

On the second of July that year, Michael turned up with a few dairy cows from the cattle show in Aughrim to replace the ones we lost. All had bright, lively eyes as they stood chest strong looking at their new run-down pasture.

Dear Siobhan,