Grandad was good at everything.
He could flip a pancake so high it touched the ceiling. He could whistle a tune that made the birds stop and listen. He could skip a stone across Lough Derg — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven skips — and the stone would say thank you before it sank.
Cillian wanted to be just like Grandad.
Monday morning, Grandad stood at the kitchen stove. He cracked an egg with one hand. Tap-crack. Perfect. Into the pan it slid, smooth as a sunrise.
"My turn!" said Cillian.
He picked up an egg. He squeezed it. He squeezed it a tiny bit more.
GLOPP.
Egg on his fingers. Egg on the counter. Egg on the dog.
Grandad looked at the dog. The dog looked at Grandad. The dog licked his own nose.
"Grand," said Grandad. "We'll just use another egg."
Tuesday afternoon, they went down to the lake. Grandad found a flat stone, grey and round as a coin.
He leaned low, flicked his wrist, and the stone went dancing across the water. Skip-skip-skip-skip-skip.
"My turn!" said Cillian.
He found a stone. He pulled his arm way, way back. He threw it with all his might.
GLOPP.
Straight down. Into the water. Gone.
He tried again. GLOPP.
And again. GLOPP.
Every single stone just dove straight to the bottom.
Cillian's shoulders drooped. He sat down hard on the pebbly shore.
"The lake's keeping them for you," said Grandad. "Building you a little collection down there."
Cillian didn't laugh.
Wednesday morning was the village bake sale at the church hall. Grandad was making his famous brown bread. He kneaded the dough with his big, flour-dusted hands — push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn. The dough went smooth and round and perfect.
"My turn," said Cillian. But quieter this time.
Grandad stepped back.
Cillian pushed the dough. It stuck to his fingers. He folded it. It stuck to his elbow. He turned it. Somehow — somehow — it stuck to his ear.
GLOPP.
Dough everywhere. On his shirt. On the table. A bit on the ceiling.
Cillian's eyes went hot and blurry. "I can't do anything," he whispered.
Grandad sat down next to him, right there on the floury kitchen floor. He was quiet for a moment. Then he held up his big hands. They were rough and cracked and knuckly.
"You see these?" he said. "These hands have glopped a thousand eggs. These hands have sunk ten thousand stones. You should have seen my first brown bread, Cillian. Your Granny used it as a doorstop. For three years."
Cillian blinked. "Really?"
"She only stopped because the door fell off."
A tiny smile crept onto Cillian's face.
Grandad scooped the dough back into a ball. A lumpy, messy, ceiling-flavoured ball. He placed it in Cillian's hands.
"Again?" said Grandad.
Cillian pushed. It stuck. He pulled it off and pushed again. It was lumpy. Grandad said nothing. Cillian pushed again. And again. And — oh. The dough started listening to him. Just a little. Just enough.
It wasn't smooth. It wasn't round. It looked like a friendly cloud that had been in a fight.
They put it in the oven anyway.
At the bake sale, Grandad's brown bread sat tall and golden on a blue plate. Next to it sat Cillian's bread — lumpy, leaning a little to the left, with a bit of ceiling dust on top.
Old Mrs. Fahey picked up Cillian's bread and squeezed it. She took a bite.
"That's the best brown bread at this table," she said.
Grandad winked at Cillian.
Cillian didn't see. He was already making plans for Thursday.
He was going to flip a pancake so high it touched the ceiling.
And if it went GLOPP?
Well.
He'd just flip another one.
