Apple Cider – James McGlade

February 23, 2026

Strongbow slips down your throat and you find yourself at a wedding with old peers who know much of the roadway and the pubs that scatter alongside. The taps within. The barman that smiles his pearly white over the wooden surface. Kilted men slipping their heels up in a jig.
Drops of sweat, mist and liquor descend from their beards as a creamy glint in their eyes catches you. Litter on the side of an aisle gets swept up, then you know around is abounding in hope and tilts of the neck, at luminous rays and the soft hum of a fiddle over dewy plains.
Mills and brooks slate out waters pearly flow, as dogs leap in, yelping, tongue outstretched. Respect the moon and let the air seep within, a husky murmur soothes. Then run a thousand blocks and wind up at the same spot, loving every second of it, in a rush, every bender, campground, mile on the bike.
You snore when the daylight dwindles and cry when the light hits your temple. You swear you’ll leave, swear you’ll stay, swear you’ll become someone else entirely, but the roads curl back like smoke and the night keeps folding you into its jacket pockets.
And later, when the noise thins and the chairs sit crooked in the grass, someone puts on a record. He plays his blues the same as always. The needle hums. The air cools. You cook an apple pie just right so it softens an ice cream glop, and for a second — just a second — everything holds.