Banshees of Maureen

There you go gráeen, a cuppa coffee. No milk.

I take the beige chipped cup. Full to brim. It jolts as I set it down.

The door is closed with care. 

Well, who looks like the wreck of the Hesperus now! I try to get a rise out of her as I face her.

Not a flicker. A bobby clip holds back her grey hair in a girlish side parting. For in her wild mind she’s a schoolgirl again. 

A puddle of coffee forms on the bed side locker. A brown line runs towards her worn beads. I form my red lipsticked side smirk. 

Classic me eh—A messer! Too hot anyways. You’d enjoy it more than me. Want a sup? 

I’d grown use to monologues in this beige purgatory. I lift her hand into mine. Her beautiful long piano fingers. Soft. Cold. Pale. I sigh. I should drink the coffee. God knows I need the dopamine hit  but I anticipate the thin taste and shudder.

Her eerie primal rasps of death echo around the room. Ancient sounds across the worlds.  

Ah mum, let go, would ya. We’ll be grand. Samhain has already passed. Slán abhaile. We’ll figure it out. We’re grown up now.

My girl got her place. Another thing I won’t get to tell you.

What harm! Fhuist out of that… 

I close my eyes. 

Am Muiring Morrígan… Am Muiring Morrígan… Am Muiring Morrígan. 

The mantra soothes me yet my mind wanders to what’s on the horizon. 

Next year the farm divided. Next week the emails will fly, draining the life out of me as my hyper-mind loses interest. The devil in the detail.

I picture the wake, at the house. She never complained they’ll say. Unlike me. Flying off the handle. With my opera coloured hair. 

I stroke her hallow cheeks. The skin on her face is paper thin, pulled tight. A phantom presence of her former self. You were once a force of nature, carrying wood to dry by the Aga.

Who knows what lay beneath those big brown eyes. Did I ever know you really? Your story so enmeshed in his. 

But you loved me. You never said the words aloud. Yet you sent those letters and signed Grá Mór. Over and over. I wish I kept them. I think I have one still.  

I gulp down the chemical goop. Lukewarm. The astringent aftertaste dominates. Function over pleasure. Like her. Dutiful. The good country wife.

Yet I see her giddily guzzling cappuccino, the froth settling on her bright thin lips. A novel experience in her tweed jacket. Well wrapped up. Don’t change a clout til May it out.

Slainte! Go mbeirimid beo!

Another gulp. 

In a week I may break apart, yet now I feel relief. Groy I heard someone call it on a podcast. Grief plus joy. 

Groy, my ole seogosia!

Come on now! The Phantom Queen is here to guide you back where you belong. The Otherworld awaits.

And the wind cries Mary.