Ireland

The next time I see you, we will sit and chat about this day, the day they put Teresa McKeagney to rest. I will tell you how Brian, along with his Da and his uncles, carried his Granny’s coffin on his shoulders down the village road, how the shops were closed as the mourners lined the road from the house to the church, how the November wind swept Therese’s hair back from her face as we women followed the coffin, how Gabriel’s pipes sang The Coolin at Mass, how I could smell only the scent of roses as they lowered her into the plot beside her husband, how 250 people gathered for tea and sandwiches in the community centre and shook hands and spoke only of the loveliness and kindness of the woman who raised my husband.

But for now, I will just tell you this. When I bent to kiss Ronan goodnight this evening, I said softly, “Well, sweetie. Your Granny is gone.” To which he replied, “I know. It’s sad. But it’s hard to be sad when you’re in Ireland.”