baile na habhann

Go mbeannaí Dia daoibh, na príomhscéalta náisiúnta agus idirnáisiúnta... 

Pushing aside the breadboard and the bairín breac, I tear open the Dawn milk carton, fingers whetted by the cardboard. The tiles are cold beneath my tiptoes, but the room is warming with the country glow of the old range, drying tattered tea towels hung above it.

My hands skim over the ceramics, picking out the Lyons tea mug-weighty and stark white, the milk paling yellow in comparison. The clock ticks and the day moves like cows: slow and deliberate. They pick up their heads as the metal gate opens with a clang and a swift unlocking. Tie the rope behind you. Feel the fray of days gone by.

Hot salty chips arrive from Costcutter’s. Mamó’s leather booklet of transactions is scrawled in office biros. Borrowing one, you draw on the Connacht Tribune’s margins; everything is dulled and muted. Red isn’t red, but a printed brown. Faces are pixelated and unrecognisable, like the visitors who come and go through the back door that’s actually the front. Let the language seep into you as you slink back onto the bony wooden chair, shoulder blades catching in its grooves.

6 p.m., and the house hushes. The rain picks up. The cows move under the trees, slow and deliberate, munching on dew drops and blades of bright green.

 Na scéalta báis... 

The radio is turned up and reverberates off the tiles. We nod solemnly, tracing the doily on the table, flicking crumbs of bread to the floor, picking at our nails. 

Cuirfear iad i reilig Naomh Mhuire... 

The list moves on. The Angelus sounds.

I’ll put the kettle down. Pick up a new dry J-cloth. Hang the wet one up. Daideo puts móin on the fire. The radio is switched off with a click. The dog barks a little after-a new visitor comes in, work boots thumping and sliding, thumping and sliding on the mat. The kettle is put on again. Rain slides down the window, blurring the cows under the tree until they are just shades of brown and black-slow and unmoving, nibbling grass.