Caoineadh ar an Bean Sí

“Blue–”

“Máire, le haghaidh an grá Dé, scor do caointe!” bhí a guth éadrócaireach, aon uair a chan Mary.

Ba mhaith sí ag canadh barely sé nótaí i, ag obair sa seomra níocháin, nuair a líonadh sé suas an doras, screadaíl i greannú, bladhmadh srón, agus ag gol beoir saor tríd a faoi léine.

“Aon duine ar mian chun éisteacht leat. Fuaimeanna cosúil le bunch cait screadaíl.”

“Is maith liom an dóigh liom–”

“Is maith duine ar bith é!” Nuair a chuir sé, feargach ní raibh sí tarraingt amach as dó, thóg sé a dhorn chlé, réidh a dhéanamh di. Stop sé ina rianta, go páirteach as a ghualainn aching dó, go páirteach as an dath an uisce níocháin, bándearg cúradh a marred an bán a chuid léinte oibre, ar fad a raibh an chuma a bheith folaithe i fola. “Cad é an ifreann atá tú ag imirt ag?”

“Nach bhfuil ag imirt, Mick,” a dúirt Máire. “Ag déanamh an níocháin Amháin. Beidh ort léine glan a chaitheamh ar an Eaglais don tseirbhís.”

“Seirbhís? Cén seirbhíse?” a dúirt Mick, ag cur céim eile chun tosaigh, an cuma ghránna ar a aghaidh casadh tuilleadh mar bhraith sé ar an preabadaigh géar ar a bogadh taobh clé trína a ghualainn agus síos isteach ina bhrollach.

“Do sheirbhís, ” a dúirt Máire, sciúradh na héadaí ré.

“Mo sheir–” thosaigh Mick, ach thit sé ar a chosa, a bhfuil a cófra, agus an ansiúd istigh de chuid brístí iompú dorcha mar a stop a chroí.

Curtha ar shos sí ina níocháin, ag smaoineamh faoi conas caithfidh sí nigh a bríste anois, freisin, agus chan sí amhrán tír is fearr leat aon uair amháin níos mó. “Blue — Oh, so lonesome without you. Why can’t you be blue over me?”

* * * Translation Below * * *

“Blue–”

“Mary, for love o’GOD, quitcher caterwaulin!” His voice was cruel, whenever Mary sang.

She’d hardly gotten six notes in, working in the laundry room, when he filled up the doorway, bellowing his irritation, nostrils flaring, sweating cheap beer through his undershirt.

“Ain’ nobody wanna hear you. Sounds like a bunch of cats screamin!”

“I like the way I–”

“Ain’ NOBODY likes it!” When he advanced, infuriated she didn’t flinch, he lifted his left fist, ready to make her. He stopped in his tracks, partly from his shoulder aching him, partly from the color of the laundry water, a foaming pink that marred the whites of his work shirts, all of which appeared to be covered in blood. “What the hell you playin at?”

“Not playin, Mick,” Mary said. “Just doin the washin. You’ll need a clean shirt t’wear at the Church for the service.”

“Service? What service?” Mick said, taking another step forward, the sneer on his face twisting further as he felt the sharp throb on his left side move through his shoulder and down into his chest.

“Your service,” Mary said, laundering the bloody clothes.

“My se—“ Mick began, but he fell at her feet, clutching his chest, and the crotch of his pants turned dark as his heart stopped.

She paused in her washing, thinking about how she’d have to wash his pants now, too, and wailed her favorite country song once more. “Blue, oh so lonesome without you – why can’t you be blue over me?”

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