Postcard to Mary
In your ninetieth year, after a quiet afternoon of flipping through pages in an Irish travel book, you took flight and left us. A silent, peaceful departure as your family tearfully gathered around. Dad asked you if you were comfortable. You faintly said, “I am.” And then, the light faded from your eyes. Dad held a small mirror to your mouth and then declared softly “she’s gone.” With your passing came the end of so many treasures. Fresh baked Irish soda bread. Your soft, lilting laugh. Those gentle hands whose touch always soothed. And most of all, your patience and enduring love of family.
After you left us I used to wonder. Did you book passage on a small detour? Back to the old country of stone fences and rolling hillocks that framed your childhood? Did you visit the family homestead and neighborhood pubs? The small Irish counties, with their shops and kind people and cheerful ways? Or was the call of long lost loved ones from a higher realm too strong to resist? Did you forego Ireland and go directly to Edward, your husband, and all who awaited your return?
And so in my fifth decade I finally made the trip. Back to the lands and people who shaped the kind and loving person you were. Having visited the pubs and people and grand scenery, now I understand. Now I know what your special ingredient was. The leprechaun spirit and Gaelic joy that infused your soul.
Now I understand everything, Mary. Especially how the magic of one’s ancestral homeland becomes a part of us. Informing deeply who we are. Much like you can’t take the country out of a cowboy, you can’t take the Irish out of a lass. It is a part of her, forever. And so, for a few weeks I will trace this land over and absorb as much as I can. Attune myself to the distant heartbeat of family ancestors and fondly remember the angelic grandmother you were.
I am finally in Ireland, Mary! Your homeland, where the rosy cheeks of passers-by remind me of you. Where the pubs are full of cheer and music. Where sheep roam the hills and bogs. Where the slower pace of life reminds me that there is more to life than work and social status and needless consumption. In Ireland I inhale the fresh air of Galway and stand against the fierce breeze of Connemara, whose famous ponies look on from afar.
I lost you, Mary, so many years ago. My kind and loving grandmother. And yet here, upon these magic lands, I feel your spirit again. What strange alchemy that crafts a sense of place. That lives within us, even when we leave our origins and travel to new places.
My wife and son are with me, Mary. We are traveling Ireland by bus, car and train. From Dublin to Roundtree. We plan to visit County Kerry, your hometown. I am sharing stories of you as we travel. So that they may know a bit of who you were.
For now, I will close this postcard to you. We have more to take in in your honor. But as we continue on our journey, know that you are always with me. Here along the green hills of Ireland. Back in the sun and surf of California. And onward, to the distant shores of time.
Erin go Bragh, Mary, Erin go Bragh!
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