Why did he do that?

Here’s a puzzle: what did he ever do and why?

Why would he do that? Why would he even do that? A terrible thing.

It bothered him, bothered him worse than a maze of midges round his head out on the banks. But only at times, nights mostly. Not that he slept badly.

Routine that’s the thing: finish off the noggin and have a moment to feel that warmth. Better than a kind word, or a pat on the hand. Up off the couch, off with the tv. Then the lights. Then the ablutions. Wouldn’t want to forget those.

Clean the dishes after every meal, running his mug under the hot tap and putting it on the draining board, then dunking the frying pan into the sink and leaving it there to soak. He didn’t want to be an old disgrace. She would have hated that, his Mam.

‘Look smart, Michael, and people will mind what you say.’ She was  forever saying that to him when he was small, getting him ready for mass and that, not so much to Mags who was only a couple of years older than him, like she didn’t need things being told to her not by their mother anyway.

His mam was so certain about everything. Never a doubt. She was absolute.

‘There is absolutely no question…’

There was perhaps not an inch of space around her certainty for him think for himself…