Every CLOUD
The rain was falling heavier now. Orla and I stood very still looking down at the man who lay on the wet ground.
‘Is he dead, Sinéad?’ Orla screamed.
‘I hope not! I’m getting married next week and this isn’t in my wedding plan,’ I said, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach.
Orla began bouncing from one foot to the other, her long blonde hair moving in unison. In times of crisis, even at 35, Orla would hop from one foot to the other. I hadn’t been at all surprised when her partner Eoghan rang me from the delivery room 10 years ago to say she had given birth to a bouncing baby boy.
Orla and I had lived next door to each other most of our lives in Buttercup Tower. She lived in flat 5E, and I lived in 5F. It was a 1960s-built block of flats in the middle of Dublin. A place bubbling with life and beauty.
Orla lived there with
