Philomena’s Revenge

As a teenager she was like any other, boys, the craic, smoking down the backs. Later there was talk she broke things, furniture and glass, her mother’s heart. ‘Mad at the world,’ the old women nod, round each other’s faces. But it was more than that and for less she was punished. That weekend she didn’t leave a cup alone every chair hit the wall, Philomena’s revenge. Soon after she was shifted and given the shocks. Round each other’s faces the old women nod ‘Treatment, treatment they’ve given her the treatment.’ These days she gets on with the furniture, wears someone else’s walk, sees visions in glass. She’s good too for getting the messages; small things, bread and milk sometimes the paper, and closing the gate after her father drives out, she waits for his signal he always shouts twice, ‘Get the gate Philo, get the gate, girl.’