He Didn'T Leave Much
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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