Callous

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Mary Casey, seventy-nine years old, a tough Galway woman.

Her home was her absolute pride.

A small house in Claddagh, one of the rare, precious, coveted original fishermen’s cottages. You had to be intimately connected to procure one of these sought-after homes.

Alone in her own home, she was trying to get accustomed to the silence. Her late husband, Tom, would have been proud of her, but then, he most always was.

A fisherman, he had been drowned during the great storm of 2009.

  The sea giveth

   The sea taketh away.

Another pride of possession was a cross from the penal times, carefully framed in a heavy wood.

A picture of Tom, alongside.

Late on the first evening, she was in the kitchen, having a wee dram of poitín to ease the solitary air.

An almighty crash came from the sitting room.

Not a woman easily spooked, she went to investigate. The frame containing the cross was in three broken pieces on the floor; the cross itself was high on the wall.

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