Moving back home: ‘It’s the same room where we sat beside my father’s coffin’

“That’s fierce… unique,” I heard the man working the till at the petrol station say, indicating my relatively new tattoo as I unload an armful of nibbly bits onto the counter. I muttered my thanks, but of course, given the uncertainty of his tone and rural Roscommon-ness of it all, I’m not entirely sure it was intended as a compliment. Naturally, I felt the need to explain myself. “It’s my house, you see. I live...