I lay in Ma’s room, alone, half-awake on a thick bed of sweet barley and weed. My patchwork belly is engorged on warm milk – the sticky residue outlines my upper lip. In an adjacent room, my ole lady is standing in the doorway leading outside. She loves watching the nighttime sleuths fade into a pale mist, heavy with dew. I ignore her and bury my head against the fragrant wheat, determined to sleep in; but as the sluggish moments pass on…my mind stays stubbornly wakeful. Any chance of a return visit to dreamland is further removed when these ears catch the rolling baritone of Da’s voice in that other room. His has always intimidated me – like the first gentle booms of thunder, warning those below to take cover. Dual hued ears prick forward and my head slowly rises from that soft bed. Ma say’s something sharp in reply. She normally has a sweetness about her, pliable and encouraging – but that same woman could smart like a lash…biting into the flesh it was unleashed upon.

Because eavesdropping wasn’t a word in my vocabulary…(yet)… there isn’t one ounce of guilt in stretching my thin neck out to overhear their conversation. (Which becomes steadily louder and easier to catch as they continue.)

“Cé mhéad dár bpáistí a thabhairt duit suas chun iad?” She hisses the word ‘them’ between her teeth – though every syllable sounds tight…like she was in pain. I didn’t understand...but corroding would eventually seep poison in her blood. Da breaths out, steady as the current of a river – “Ní mór do gach pas a fháil sa ghnás,” he chastises gently, “Rinne tú. Rinne mé.” She rebukes him, “Two, Angus,” it dawns on me that they spoke of my siblings. Whose names I’ve never heard...because it was forbidden to repeat, or reused a failed name.

“Dhá cheann dár leanaí atá imithe agus tá súil siad dúinn a sheoladh amach ceann eile!”

“Myrna… Ní chuirimid bhfuil rogha” For the first time since I’ve known life, Da sounds grey – just as rusted as his mate. “Iarracht,” she insists, her breath flutters like the wings of a bee. “D'fhéadfadh muid--,” but the remainder of that sentence is cut off, “Go Leor!” I flinch, his words cut deeper than hers, “Ná labhairt ar seo arís ... tá a fhios agat an pionós.”
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Another dream…

Seems I’m plagued by them nightly now. A disgruntled sigh drifts from me as these eyelids widen. I blink, but the pupil within is hazy and slow to shake its shagged remnants. Overhead it is bucketing to no end. Giant goblets of water drip down from a kaleidoscope. I’ve taken shelter under a thick overhang of fallen trees, but their protection isn’t perfect. Water still seeps between limbs and dead foliage. Pinions curl tighter, the coverts on top are damp but below their downy fold my flesh is warm and dry. I wait, mindlessly numb to anything of mental value. Eventually, the late morning sky lightens to a drizzle – even so, heaven remains grey and foredooming.

SEAN