My sweet daughters, both of fiery spirit like their mother, love to argue for argument’s sake. They fly to flame. No, rather, they put bellows to cinder. They can’t help themselves.
In some places, it is unseemly.
In our home it is high art.
We have, after all, been brought up to spar as though lighting the warming evening fire – all of us on our Irish side - on the historian’s side – seducing the slow burn of a perfectly wrought argument
as it throws sparks
across the table at hapless guest, sibling or parent
igniting idea, conviction,