What’s in a Song…

Nursery Rhymes. We know them. We sing them. We sometimes dance them. They are etched into our minds even if we haven’t sang to a baby or child in decades. We sing international songs, local songs, community songs, sometimes, as in my case, songs about our history. Alma usually falls asleep to a rendition of ‘Grace,’ or ‘Black Velvet Band,’ (we’ll wait on ‘Weila Waila,’ – started singing that one to her a while ago and realized, really really realized how shocking that song is.)
We tell stories through song. Sometimes remembering our own experiences and memories as we pass them down to the next generation…and sometimes, a memory of its own is created.

During Alma’s swim class, we sing and waterdance allowing the toddlers to glide through the water and enjoy the buoyancy of weightlessness. I don’t know all of the songs, those being the ones that I didn’t grow up with, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who doesn’t. But every now and then, I recognize one from my own childhood. When the ‘Hokey Pokey,’ or as others know it, ‘Hokey Cokey,’ started up, I was able to change that one letter and sing along. We were all splashing those hands in and out of the water, throwing in the left leg, throwing it out, putting in the right leg, sloshing it all about! I was gearing up for what was my favorite part, the part when we all hold hands in a giant circle and rush into the middle until the circle becomes this mish-mash of people, and then we run backwards again to create one big circle. It was the anticipated moment that my brother and sisters and childhood friends loved. We would over-enthusiastically scream that part. Wailing as we ran in and out.
Obviously, being in the water and holding a toddler meant that we wouldn’t do the holding hands part, but as we inched closer to the moment, I looked at Alma and said ‘Ready! Here we gooooooo,’ and I’m holding her and rushing into the center of the circle bellowing out, ‘WHHHOOOOOOAAAAAA Hokey Pokey Pokeyyyyyyy,’ and I’m realizing that no-one else is rushing in. Everyone is doing a delicate twirl in place, a little pirouette, while Alma and I are breaching whales sending not a ripple, but a wave of water outward. ‘Oh jesus,’ I thought, ‘they don’t do the circle bit.’ But I’m committed to it now, so we’re just water-running in and out of a circle while everyone else is side-glancing at us and singing lightly. And I’m mortified. We are the rowdies. My introverted side sinks under the water in a puddle of embarrassment. My embarrassment makes me sing louder, I can’t stop bloody singing, and Alma shrieks with laughter. She’s looking at me, oblivious that we’re doing anything that makes us stand out. She’s loving the rush of scurrying backwards and forwards. The feel of the water moving around us. The half-amused, because at this point I know I’m about to start laughing my head off at the absurdity of this moment, look on my face as I warble along with her chirps. And the embarrassment dissolves. We’re sharing in this experience. We’re in it together. Enjoying it now. It might not be the ‘right’ way, it’s just our way. And that way is no different to how much the other kids are enjoying their twirls with the adult holding them. Basking in the water, the attention, the song and the moment. As the song ends and we’re back to our places in the circle, the woman next to me glances at me, and I say, ‘That was a good one, wasn’t it,’ and I’m grinning so wide and so is Alma, and that’s all that matters. And then the circle starts moving again, and everyone’s singing a song that I don’t know, but that’s ok. We’re still part of it. Still laughing and enjoying, and learning.

Whatever you end up singing, however it takes you back. Sing your song. Sing it out. Enjoy. Share. Experience together. Even if you’re doing it differently, you’re still doing it right.

“And that’s what it’s all about…..”

The perfect imperfection…

I am immensely grateful for so many things. I live a good life. It isn’t a perfect one, but it is mine. My kind of perfect. One which is filled with immense love; a wonderful man, an inspiring daughter, a devoted dog, a loud and loving family, and a community of people who make it a point to be kind and wholehearted in all they do.

The imperfect side has been what it has been. It has provided lessons and battles that can only strengthen. It has made me yearn for one last conversation, or humbled me in my tracks. It has taught me my most treasured and valuable lessons. We all live them. They exist for whatever reason, but we endure and outlive them. While they do not define us, they become us all the same.

In my gratitude, I thank technology, and yes, even social media. The days of walking across Grangemore Park and saying hi or stopping to chat about life with many familiar faces are years behind me. Old colleagues, school friends, and childhood ones are not in my neck of the woods so much anymore, however I still see a glimpse of you and smile and reminisce. Whether you are sharing your Christmas tree, your kid’s nativity, your terrible morning where you spilled your coffee all over your favorite shirt, your recent exciting emigration to San Diego, or the heartbreaking loss of a loved one; I appreciate you allowing me a moment to share in your journey. To feel, laugh, grieve, or tut with you. To stop and chat in online, text or photographic form. To say a short hello. To wish me a happy birthday. To share in yours. I am grateful for them. For the ability for us in some small way to reconnect, check-in, catch up, or just nod and smile.

For all the negatives of social media, and there are many, it allows me to experience with you and to learn from you. It serves as a reminder that we all lead good lives, not perfect, but the kind of life that brings with it stories, tales, and at times, tears that burn the soul, or obversely, a huge bellyful of laughter. That’s pretty much what life is about. So thank you, for not striving for perfection with me, but taking in all the beauty that makes us grateful for what we have. It’s the perfect imperfection. The only life I want.

What can we do to stop this?

Last night my 8 month old daughter awoke crying from teething pain. After getting her back asleep a few times and crying once more, her Dad whom she adores, went in to soothe her, but her cries got louder. When I went into the room and took her into my arms, she nestled into me and stopped crying. ‘She just wanted you,’ Martin said, and so I rocked her and she cried no more, but I started to, because all I could think about was the 8 month old who was separated from his/her parents. Who was there for that baby when he or she cried?When sometimes the only thing that can soothe is your Mother’s embrace, how do they comfort these little ones who are crying out for their Mama’s?

I took Alma into bed with us as I do most nights, and she put her hand on my face and the other on her dad’s arm and she slept for the night waking here and there with little whimpers when her gums flared up. But she was content just knowing that we were with her.

This morning I’m heartbroken, angry and almost panically desperate; how can I help these children? What can I do? It’s impossible to switch off your knowledge of this, and even if possible, We wouldn’t, couldn’t. We need to do something. It’s unbelievable to think that after concentration and internment camps, history is repeating itself. We cannot sit back and let it play out on tv, social media, and newspapers. It’s not enough to say that it angers us, or that we are against it. We must do something! If anyone knows of anything that I can do to help, please let me know. I can’t sit back and do nothing.

I remember thinking, during a beautiful ceremony at our baby shower when our friends and family voiced their intentions and hopes for Alma, that our little girl wasn’t even here yet and she had already received more love than some people receive their entire lives. That sentiment continues today, and makes me so grateful to the community surrounding us. How can I help to change what’s going on so the parents of these children can at least breathe a little easier knowing their children are with people who will care for them until their parents can hold them again? That there are people who are sending love and good intentions to their little ones? That we don’t all view them as undeserving of basic human rights and decency? If you know of any way that I can help, please please let me know what I can do.

Together for Yes…

Somewhere, in an airport departure lounge around the world, there is a woman waiting for a plane home so she can cast her vote. An opportunity to let her voice be heard, and offer the right to choose to another woman who could very well be sitting in the departure lounge of Dublin airport when her plane lands, waiting for a flight that will take her to England; alone, scared, shamed, and overwhelmed.

One journey filled with hope and community and the possibility of change. The other, a journey in which the silence is achingly vast, the loneliness a plump presence of luggage to bear. One arrival filled with laughter and optimistic excitement about the possibility of waking on Saturday to a new world; of being heard and of being seen. An arrival celebrated amidst solidarity. The other, an arrival’s hall filled with invisibility, noiselessness and seclusion.

In that Dublin departure lounge, there may also be a family heading off on their holidays, happy to have some time together, but carrying with them a void that cannot be filled, because one vital person is missing. One family member who nurtures and loves, who would hold the laughter of her children in the palms of her heart, who would lie with them when they’re sick, wipe their tears when they cry, who is significant in every moment of their lives…except she isn’t. She is absent. Unaccounted for by a constitution which did not hold her as significant as her family did.

I cannot vote tomorrow. I have no voice, despite the fact that I am an Irish citizen, that my daughter is an Irish citizen, that me, her, my family and community, can and may well be impacted by tomorrow’s result in a devastating way. I never want to lose them because a law doesn’t protect them, doesn’t allow them choice, or see them as equal and able to make decisions that affect them.

You can be pro-life and still vote yes. You can feel uncomfortable with the topic at hand, with what it represents, and who it represents, and you can still vote yes. This isn’t just about abortion. It is about more than that. It is about choice and fundamental rights. I was going to ask you to vote yes for me because I can’t, but I don’t want you to do it for me, I want you to vote yes because it is the right thing to do. It is your vote, your voice, and your ability to make change happen. Repeal the 8th. Allow women bodily autonomy. Allow us access to healthcare which can support us throughout and afterwards. Allow us to choose.

Thank you #hometovote for making the journey so future women won’t have to.

Go For It!

This time last year, I sat with my husband over a bottle of St. Supery Cabernet as we discussed taking a break from trying to have children. It had been over 3 years, and while I don’t quite have the words yet to tell that story, suffice to say that those years were full of painful losses, a conveyor belt of doctor’s faces, surgery, emotions, and of course many many tears. My heart, my mind, and my body were tired; we were weary, yet we had persevered, battled on, and tried, and tried, and tried again. Someday the words will come and I will write that story, but for now, the focus is on this time last year, my husband, a bottle of cab. and a discussion.

My ever-supportive husband who had held my hand and weathered every storm with me, nodded and said that he was with me every step of the way. And so a decision was made, we took deep breaths, we hugged, while I cried.

This year, I sat with my husband over a (small) glass of Cabernet as we whispered and giggled, exhausted from lack of sleep, listening to the snores and hiccups from our daughter, Alma. Our miracle, our soul; born from love and hope and dreams.

Now some may and have said that this little miracle graced us because I just needed to relax, and to those people, I say, ‘fuck off.’ She is here because she is here, and because of it, our hearts are full.

I tell the shell of this tale not to release the journey we’ve been on to you, but because the new year comes upon us and for some, resolutions will be made, while for others, hopes will be left behind. I speak now to the latter, if only to say, don’t give up! There is fight left in you, there is still a chance, still hope, still the possibility! Whether it’s something small, something bigger than yourself, something that whispers in your ear from time to time, or tugs at you and leaves you conflicted; give it one more go. Hang in there a little longer, believe in yourself one more time.

As I sit here and thank the generations that came before for my Alma, I realize that though we may lose battle after battle, sometimes just sometimes, we lift our weary heads and realize that we’ve won the war. It’s not an easy journey. We all carry our burdens, and sometimes we need just one nod, one nudge, one gesture from another to help us take another breath, to pull us up for one last fight. This is my nod, my nudge, my hand.

On this night, I raise a glass to my miracle, and I toast to your future ones, whatever they may be.

I.Am.An.Immigrant.

I am an immigrant. A proud immigrant who packed amongst her photographs, clothes, shoes and belongings, a suitcase full of memories of the people and lands left behind. Of the culture, beliefs and values instilled by those around me. Of the knowledge that I would see them again, I would return, and they, in turn, would travel to these lands to see this new world where I was now living.

I am an immigrant. One who talks a little different to you. One who tiptoes across the borderlands of two countries filled with the people I love and the lives that I live.

I am an immigrant. Perhaps a more privileged one, as the color of my skin and the religious attire I wear does not make people fearful when I board a plane or cross continents, as the letters behind my name emphasize the education I have been blessed to have accrued, as my motherland is affiliated with laughter, music, storytellers, and welcoming personas. And yet terrorism has been associated with my motherland too. Mass migration has been associated with my homeland. Illegal immigrants; my people were, still some are.

I am an immigrant with a green card in my pocket allowing me to traverse the boundaries of community. With a stamp in my passport that allows me to open myself to the diversity of two identities; here and there. I am an immigrant.

I know of the childlike elation that arises when you know your loved one’s plane has landed. That deep feeling of connection. They are here, just beyond those gates, just a few steps between you until the distance disappears and you embrace. And then you’re crying, not because you are sad, but because you love this person so much that just seeing them again right in front of you brings such joy, such peace, such recollections. This day has been marked on the calendar for months. The countdowns were daily. Plans have been made, telephone conversations revolving around what you’re going to do together ran deep into the night. Memories are recounted. Two worlds united as you show them everything – this is where I work, this is where I live, this is where I am involved in community…this is where those integral cultures, beliefs, and values you instilled in me continue to exist.

But what if that waiting produces no reunion? You feel your loved one’s presence, just beyond those doors, just a few steps away, and yet, you are denied their face just in front of you, their embrace. That bond that traverses the sliding doors as you stand on tiptoe willing their face to come into view, still as strong as the day you left. That realization dawning that all of your hard work, your good values, your valued goodness, your decency as someone who has contributed time, culture, character to this country, taxes to this government; they have become revalued, devalued, defunct. You are just an immigrant.

How do you bear the grief of not knowing what will happen?

How do you haul the weighing anguish with you as you return to your home missing the very person you came to collect?

What do you do when you realize that family is not just a flight away, that these borders have now become prisons, these oceans now moats.

How do you begin to comprehend that this is just one example, that there are many to follow; the student who returned home to see family during Winter break, the child who was coming for lifesaving healthcare, the businesswoman away on a business trip, the refugees who have waited for that green card for years, that piece of paper containing sanctuary, containing freedom from oppression, from the devastation of having seen their motherland bombed and brutalized, their family murdered and destroyed.

Even more so, how do you grasp the consciousness that you…are just an immigrant?

The answer; you don’t.

You are not ‘Just’ anything. You are everything. Contained within you is a world of culture, beliefs and values. Do not lost sight of them. You are not ‘just,’ you are ‘more,’ – more than just an immigrant, more than just a woman, a Muslim, disabled, gay – you are all of your identities, all of your communities, all of your choices in life. And together we are not just more; we are change, we are humanity, understanding, compassion. We see each other. We acknowledge each other, and together, we rise.

I am an Immigrant.

Leaving Home for Home

For many people living overseas, words can take on a new and sometimes confusing meaning. I was in Ireland last weekend, and found myself pausing mid-conversation whenever I said, “We’re heading home on Sunday,” or “The weather at home is great…” What made me pause was using the word ‘home,’ because in essence, I was home, I felt home, and yet, there was also another home that I talked about. To the person I was speaking to, it was a word, nothing to pause about, nothing that took from the conversations we were having, but for me, it was poignant.

In the beginning when I first emigrated, I only referred to Ireland as home, mind you I still do, she will always be home; my home, my lands, my blood, but over time, I’ve begun to say ‘home’ when I talk about Oakland. I’m still not connected to America as a whole, perhaps it’s much too big for that, perhaps these Irish roots are so deeply planted that the earth there is what nurtures me, but Oakland is my home too. I feel a connection to her, maybe not as soulful as Ireland, but she still owns a little bit of real estate in my heart. I have a community there, I have friends who are family, and a life that I love.

You could look at this experience as saying that emigrants are constantly split; always in one place with their hearts in another, always missing someone, something, some place when they are in another, but I see it a little differently. I see it as adding, encountering, and experiencing. Sure, there are times when I feel such a sense of loss, a need to be with someone who is miles away, an urgency that can bring tears because the distance seems so far, but isn’t it wonderful to be able to say that I miss someone no matter where I am? That our bonds extend miles, oceans, lands. That somewhere in the world right now, there are people living their lives who are presently loved in my heart and at the forefront of my mind?

We don’t need to be emigrants to experience it. Think of your Uni roommates (Holy Grovers <3) or your childhood friend, or maybe someone you met when you were travelling. Maybe they were the traveler, and you happened to make their holiday all the more monumental. These connections can be lasting; filled with memories to make you smile, company when you’re feeling lonely; these are the small details we overlook when life’s hectic and stressful agendas get in the way.

Was I reluctant to leave Ireland last week? Absolutely, and I will every time I take a breath, say goodbye…for now, and head through security with an urge to look back and a resolution not to.

Did I smile when we pulled up to my house in California, and I walked through my front door? Definitely, and I will every time I return. Because it’s my little house, and my little home that contained within are photos, cultures, memories, moments shared between my two homes; one here in Oakland and one over there in Ireland.

I return from each side; Ireland or California with a suitcase full of memories, and a heart full of love.

You Can`t Take This From Me…

I have always treasured the value enveloped in an airport. The space where we allow ourselves to lower our vulnerabilities, where our feelings are no longer suppressed by the boundaries of social etiquette, and where our connections to those we share our lives with are exposed. When you think about it, airports are where our humanity is laid bare.

There is but one floor dividing two places where polar emotions are felt. Arrivals where we laugh and cry with happiness, where we run to our loved ones, where we grip onto flowers, a balloon, and a nervous smile with excited anticipation. Departures where we cling to the embrace of our friends and family not wanting to let go, where tears flow freely, and last calls of ‘It won’t be long,’ ‘Thank you for coming,’, and ‘I love you` are uttered generously. Every person reuniting or separating brings with them their unique history, the story of their relationship and reasons for being there. Each tale as incomparable as the next; no two alike. 

It’s been barely a week since I stood outside the security gates at departures kissing my nephew`s cheek a hundred times, willing myself to remember the weight of him in my arms because I knew that he would never be this size again. Not even a week since my sister and I embraced each other amidst tears and laughter, clutching each other a little tighter than usual out of necessity, not expectations. So the emotions of the airport are strong in me this week. A week where we’ve once again been reminded to cherish every single moment with our loved ones, where the airport takes on a new meaning, where fear and vulnerability of another light have been exposed. But this time it was a little different.

You see, for me, we would enter the airport and concern for safety would follow, but only after we passed security. The emphasis was on bags and x-ray machines, liquids and taking off shoes. The departure lounge and walk to the plane included a brief moment of benediction with the closing utterance of prayer. For many of us, the duration of a flight has often included the fleeting thought `please don’t let this be the plane` or `please let us land safely.`

This week those thoughts have expanded, because now, concerns for safety don`t commence when you pass security, now they take place the moment you enter the airport; be it the car park or the check-in desk, whether you`re the traveler or not. Now, cowards are exploiting every single sacred space of a traveler’s vulnerabilities. It`s not the first time that the airport `safe spaces` have been targeted. Last December, a suicide car bomb exploded at the entrance to Kabul airport. That same airport experienced a similar incident the previous August. Mogadishu, Manila, Madrid, have all had car bombs explode at the airport. Orly Airport in France fell victim to a suitcase bomb at the check-in desk, LAX has experienced a gunman. History has shown us that Brussels is not the first attack to happen ahead of the security screenings. but it does remind us that life is precious. That these horrors befall people, anytime, anywhere.

My fear is not of the people who commit these appalling selfish acts, I refuse to let them take the beauty of an airport away from me, but here is my dismay. There may come a day in our future where we will no longer witness the wonderment and pain of arrivals and departures because airports will change. We will no longer have the option to have that one last cup of tea with family before walking through the gates. My worry is that someday, only those travelling will be allowed to enter the airport. Only those with a ticket in hand will have access to the check-in desks. Those beautiful, exposed emotions of our humanity will no longer be exhibited because there will be no one there to experience or bear witness to them. I can only hope that these are wasted worries, that terrorists will never be given the power to take that away from us, because we won`t let them. Arrivals and Departures are where we feel, we love, we laugh, we long; they are our places. A place of love, no matter how they try to ruin that.  

Tis’ a Frosty One…

I was standing at the bus stop, my face burrowing into the layers of my scarf that hasn’t seen the light of day since last Christmas’ trip back to Ireland. My gloved hands were trying to send a text message, but between not sensing the touch of my fingers, and making up words when it did, I was ready to throw the bloody thing in the street for the cars to crush. A blast of icy breeze had the auld’ eyes watering, or maybe that was catching sight of the bus and knowing that soon, I’d be inside where it was warm.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that I was waiting for a DART back in Dublin, or taking a stroll around New York this deep into the winter weather, but this is California. This is an anomaly – sure you only have to look at the poor souls walking around Berkeley in their hat, scarf, gloves …and flip flops, to know that they’re not able for these kinds of temperatures. They don’t know the most important rule of going out in the cold; keep the head and feet wrapped up to preserve the heat. I’m not sure if that was a rule my Mam and Dad made up, but it makes sense to me. No-one needs to see toes nearing the stages of frostbite. No-one!

Insanely, it’s been nearing freezing point every morning this week. Let that sink in for a second; my weather app. is telling me that Dublin is 10 degrees warmer than the Bay Area of California. There are pictures of men working out shirtless in New York. Where’s the winter layers? The blizzards and snow storms that we all watch on tv from sunny California? It’s official, global warming is once again reminding us that we’ve destroyed our earth! And also, that I’ve become acclimatized to California weather. I’ve been spoilt by the Gods of mild temperatures (tortured by the Gods of drought though.) Indian summers, camping in October, t-shirts and shorts by March – this is life I’ve happily accepted for myself. So you can imagine how it feels to wake up inside a less harrowing version of an Irish snow globe winter (minus the snow of course!) I think I’m experiencing some weather-related form of PTSD! I love my bed in the mornings because it’s warm, I hate that first chill that makes its way into your soul when you first leave the house, but mercifully, it’s not as bad as that absolutely dreadful damp cold that seeps into your bones in Ireland. I will take any type of temperature over that torture.

Still, for Christmas, this is the coldest it’s been in California for many of my years here. I pass my colleague’s offices and take a glance inside. They’re all wearing wooly hats on their heads like tea cozy’s, and thick blankets are draped over their legs for self-warmth. Their hands aren’t flying over computer keyboards; they’re enveloped around a hot mug of cinnamon tea. The smell of spices in the office would have you keeling over, and every time they see you putting your coat on, they give you an anxious wide-eyed look while saying, “Don’t go out there.” It would put the heart across you. I’m waiting for Ned Stark’s voice to erupt over the building’s intercom system with a somber “Winter is coming!”
Sorry Ned, it’s here. I’m loving it, and yet I’m reminded why I don’t love it. But it’s Christmas, so it’s great to have a weather theme to go with the festivities. A spot of snow maybe? I mean we’re already in the low temps so we might as well, right? Just go for the whole shebang at this stage. Santa will be delighted to be able to slide along when he visits California. Just sayin…

Magpie Margie and the Mouse

There hasn`t been a day that`s passed over the last year, that I haven`t thought about or deeply missed my Nana Banks. The impact and influence she made on my life is evident to me in my every day`s. Only a year tomorrow since her passing, there is a void in our world so great, it can never be filled. But I don`t want to dwell on the tears; they will continue to fall, sometimes at the most inconvenient or surprising times. Like when you see a beautiful head of white hair bob through the crowds in the shops, and for a second you forget yourself, and you follow because you think `what if…` or you hear a song that you know she would have sang with such beauty and passion.

Instead, I want to remember the moments; the ones that bring a smile to my face. The ones that cause tears of the other kind; the ones that come accompanied with a burst of laughter. So today, as we near Magpie`s anniversary, I`ll remember the every day’s and the moments we shared, and I`ll smile because I was blessed to have had them in the first place. I was lucky enough to have had long talks, shared jokes, sing songs and stories with my Magpie, and I was fortunate enough to have experienced Margie and the mouse!

Many years ago, there wasn`t a visit to Nana`s where she didn`t complain to anyone who would listen about a mouse running through the walls. Her grumbles were endless. The mouse was devious, and he was keeping her up at night because he slept during the day. He was, according to Margie, her nemesis. You`d only stepped through the front door, and had yet to take your coat off before the `bloody mouse` was mentioned. After traps were laid and no little rodent caught, after staying the night and hearing no sounds, the mouse became a legend in our house. Usually his mentions brought a grin and a nod of agreement to Nana that yes, the mouse was a bother and he was a scheming little mite, and of course he was real, but truthfully, we thought, after months of his mention that he was a figment of Nana`s imagination.

On Thursday`s, I always stayed over in Nana`s house so we could read Wuthering Heights together, and watch CSI drinking tea. I can`t count the amount of times we read Wuthering Heights together, but the pages are dog-eared and worn on my copy which is filled with memories not printed on a page. On this particular Thursday, Nana would not let up about the mouse. Gil Grissom was trying to tell us who the killer was, and all I could hear was Nana talking about how one little mouse could sound like a giant in the walls. During her tirade, she paused and said, `Do you hear that?` I glanced over at her to tell her that I didn`t hear anything, but as I did, something caught my eye and I raised them up to the corner.

Holy Jesus, the feckin` mouse was chewing a tiny hole in the crown molding up in the ceiling and sticking his head through. I nearly had a heart attack, but Nana was still ranting that she knew I didn`t believe her and if only I could hear it then I`d understand. I understood alright, the mouse was having a good look around the room as she spoke! Then, Nana paused. I looked away, my heart pounding. `Don`t let her look up, ` I willed the universe, `Please don`t let her look up. ` In slow motion, she began to turn her head, her neck angling to the side. She glanced up over her shoulder ever so slowly, then even slower, twisted her face to me; eyes wide open, eyebrows raised, with a look of pure horror on her face. `What the f*#k is that?` she said.

As I write this, I am crying laughing because I will never forget the look on her face. I will never be able to describe the expression she wore, or the way she asked that question. Of course what ensued next was mayhem. The two of us ran around the living room with no idea what to do. The mouse was still peeking his little head out watching us. At one point, we each had a dish towel in our hands that we were flapping at the air, because if honest, neither of us wanted the mouse to make it out of the ceiling into the room with us. So we did the actions of shooing it, but really we were huddled in the doorway waving a towel at the corner. Nana pushed me forward, `Get it,` she said, as I ran behind her and pushed her forward, `You get it.` The curses out of her turned the air blue until she ran out of the room and came back carrying the sweeping brush. Now you may think `the poor mouse, ` but Nana didn`t attack him with the broom, instead, she waved it around in front of her like it was a lightsaber. `What are you doing? ` I spluttered as the laughter started to hysterically bubble within me. `I`m protecting myself. ` She replied, `If he jumps out of the wall, he might land on me. This way, he`ll hit the brush and fly out of the room. `

Ah Nana, you always had the best of intentions, but the wackiest of imaginations. Still, your survival skills were so quick to the ball. I love you, I miss you, but still your presence, your memory, and your ways comfort me and make me smile. Tá tú i gcónaí i mo chroí, Magpie.