Civil War (bp coyle)

‘The worst kind of war is a civil war,’ Granny constantly told us when we were young. She had lived through the Irish Civil War as a girl, so I guess she knew what she was talking about. ‘Brother fighting with brother,’ she’d go on. ‘Fathers fighting with sons. It rips families apart forever.’ And yeah, it sure sounded like it sucked but that was a long time ago, even back then, and in a different country. We listened politely, as we had been told to, though it meant little or nothing to us.

Tonight, I had to get out of the house for a while. Had to walk, get some fresh air and Granny’s words have been going through my head. It feels like I am living through a civil war right now. Dad has spent the evening shouting at Mom. Over Brexit. Always Brexit. That’s all they talk about. It’s all anyone talks about. Everyone talks, nobody listens.

All I hear all day is: ‘Leave means leave.’

‘People’s vote.’

‘Seventeen point four million people…’

I know it must have been worse in Granny’s day. No one is walking the streets with guns here.

Not yet anyway.

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