A Piece of My Mother Yet In Green Ireland

Mother's fine old broach had I worn on the edge of my green jacket that I'd bought to keep me warm -but the shamrock undid its latchet. The broach fell off in the trek to Brewley’s to rest our poor feet. I had a coffee, and what the heck, of course, I had me a sweet. I was brushing the crumbs from my chest, and there did I notice my loss, a token of Mother, and one she liked best now gone to some Irish girl's blouse. My Scotch-Irish Mom's in glory. She'd never crossed an ocean. Bringing her broach was my fantasy story. She'd accompany me here was my notion. So I left a piece of my dear little Marm where her distant relatives thrive. I like to think it's admired for its charm "It sparkles," they'll say, "It's alive!" Far from a drawer near the Ohio banks, yet that piece is just where she'd choose it. For life spends itself in fancies and pranks. If we can't see it thus, then, we lose it.