Winter - February 1947

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I was nineteen when I stopped believing in God.

It was the year of the Big Snow in Ireland. Wheat, as hardy as it is, crystallised on our farm. Its droopy heads stood stiff and withered, dropping into the snow. Our view from the house was a flat plain of white. The brightness would burn my eyes, creating a feeling like my brow bones were being pushed into my brain. The vast whiteness was a continuous migraine, blurry vision, a pressuring pain that I haven’t felt since. Our curtains were closed for fifty days.

Mother believed that the constant callous snowfall was a punishment from God. That Ireland was losing its Christian heart to Devil loving sin. A belief that we deserved it. I don’t think we did, and I didn’t at the time, even though I would’ve never voiced that to my mother. There was no disagreeing against her Gods actions.

We lost eight of our ten cows that year as wind kicked up the old slate on the barn’s roof. The snow fell into the barn and soaked the cows bedding, freezing their only place of shelter. We did not have the money to repair the roof, and so we had to let the cows suffer the wrathful elements.

Every morning, I’d walk over to their pasture, crunching on a new layer of snow, with a tin milk bucket that burnt my palm as it cooled to the temperature of the wind. I still have a handle shaped scar from the blister over my heart-line.

Opening the frost locked barn doors with a crack, a weighty push, I’d find another of our cows sick or dead.

Mother forced me to sever the corpses of the cows that had died. A necessity, she said, to make their bodies easier to transport from the barn to the pasture.

‘It is the only way, Siobhan. Your daddy can’t and my own bones are too soft,’ an excuse. My body was as weak as her own during this winter.

Passing me the blunt saw that had lost the sharpness in its teeth, she stood, looming over me, watching, and criticising when I amputated them wrongly. I shredded their limbs from their torso, stroking the dead cow with tears that blurred my vision. They, as silly as it sounds, were a comfort to me during this time in my life, like how a dog or a cat would comfort you.

Behind me, Mother threw holy water from a plastic Virgin Mary bottle and recited the Lord’s prayer. To bless them, she said, and to help us sinners see our wrongdoings

‘This is God’s judgement, Siobhan. We are sinners. We need to ask for salvation. Show our worth to the Lord.’

The drips of blessed water cooled to the wind like it had come from an ordinary hose, shocking the base of my neck like sharp pins each time a drop landed on my skin.

Blood stained the virgin white snow. Thick vomit regurgitated into my mouth when the sharp iron smell of blood hit me. I’d swallow it back down, leaving this acidic bitter taste trapped in the crevasses of my gums. The snow made the blood travel as spiky snowflakes passed it to their snowflake neighbours, making it look like the cow was growing bloodied veins from its torso. I couldn’t, wouldn’t cut their heads. Their eyes stared into my own like the cow was seeing the woman who raised them turn into a sadistic butcher.

Shaking, exhausted, and filled with a grief that was a far cry from Godly, Mother made me haul the cow’s shredded body to the snow layered pasture, splashing holy water as we walked. I’d lay down the gruesome parts in the cows’ former silhouette, so it looked like it had never been slaughtered. I wanted them to look peaceful, but instead, they looked a farmer’s attempt at building their own Frankenstein monster.

The wind carrying white snow pellets whistled, touching my body with its sharp bite. I tried to wrap myself in my torn cardigan to warm my freezing skin. A failed attempt, thanks to my mother’s scissor happy hands. Mother, using her Catholic touch, pushed her weight onto my shoulders, making my already limp legs buckle underneath me.

‘Kneel now, Siobhan. Ask for the Lord’s help.’