Lindsey Bellosa was born in upstate NewYork , USA. She has an MA in Writing from the National University of Galway, Ireland and has had several poems and short stories published in both Irish and American magazines and journals including Crannog, Big River Poetry, The Poppy Review, and TRANSITION Magazine.
By Lindsey Bellosa
“The time isn’t long passing,” Sadie says as she stands in her kitchen and kisses our faces, goodbye. Her blue eyes are settled like a calm day on Clew Bay, resting on the rocks of the Emlagh shore where she has lived nearly a century: nine children, difficult births…is she thinking of them as she stares out, resolved to meet her God as the sea meets the shore? Or of her husband, twenty five years gone, his grave under the green grass beside the sea beside the small child they lost under the wheel of his wagon as he pulled the horses through the stubborn ground.
He had told her to keep seated but perhaps she spotted a flower, perhaps she was petulant as a small child is whenever they are seated, so she jumped down just as the wheels gave way from the stubborn ground and did he hear her small bones or her cry or did he return to find her seat empty and his heart lurched like that terrible wagon in the thick blood of love and did he pray please God no as he found her small body in the mud, carried her all the way home with no hope, with hope as dead as a day where the sea does not move and the shore is desolate as an empty house.
So he carried her to the kitchen where Sadie met them at the door, where perhaps she saw them at a distance or heard his low and terrible moan. She must have howled like the wind that shook the house at night. She must have pounded her hands like rocks with grief, while the grandmother of my children rolled oblivious in her womb… born three weeks later under the haze of grief for her namesake, for the small Mary they lost.
Is this what Sadie thinks of as she bids us goodbye, as she stares out into the fields and listens to the sea and the wind, raging one night and settled the next. Like time…. beating the shore or like Sadie’s eyes: resolved to its passing.