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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required He Didn’t Leave Much He didn’t leave much, never had much. His “stuff” mostly fit in one drawer of the old dresser. His world a daily grind of rising at five AM, walking to his first job. Then at five PM, walking from his first job to his second job. I don’t ever remember him being happy. I know that he must have had some happiness in his life, but it was never apparent to me. He was intelligent, if not educated. He was pretty much a non-participant in my life. An Irish immigrant, he knew little of the games his children loved, although I think he feigned an interest at times. I imagine these moments were his attempts to form something of a bond with children who knew little or nothing about their ancestors, their history, their heredity. The mystery of the man still shadows me today. Who was he – really. There were stories of Ireland and the IRA, of farms and family, a family we never met. As he grew older, he would become melancholy at times and meander through memories fueled by a bottle of Irish Whiskey. He would play the accordion. His eyes would sparkle as he played, as if he had gone back to a different time, a kinder place. Perhaps the mystery of the man is a better legacy than knowing all the gritty details of his loves and loses, his heartaches, his youthful experiences. What were his secrets, and why were they kept? I wonder – when he left Ireland – if he wept. John G. Lawless 5/1/2014
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