In Memory of My Dad

☘️☘️ ☘️

my dad, riding through Glacier Park, sometime in the early 1990s

Last week was the anniversary of my dad’s death. He died at the age of 73, in 2004, when I was 33, and three months pregnant with my third child. He was Irish, John Francis Moroney, the son of Emmett Moroney and Mary Ryan Moroney, two children of Irish immigrants who met on Chicago’s west side in the early 1990s. Emmet’s family was from Tipperary, and Mary’s from Clare, or maybe it was the other way around. I grew up seeing green carnations in lapels every year on this day in March, knowing Irish folk songs before I knew the ABCs, and being bounced on many a knee to the the tune of It’s A Long Way to Tipperary.

I’m of the school of thought that says the Irish-American experience isn’t all it is cracked up to be—white supremacy tends to run rampant in certain sections, as well as alcoholism, and deep, deep denial of generational trauma. And yet, as with all of life, it is not without its beauty. Its music, its mythology, its abundant connection to the natural world, its fairy sprites, its cairns, its moors and mists. Its poetry.

So to honor today’s holiday, and in memory of my father, here is a poem I wrote a few years ago that was published in the lovely little Crosswinds Poetry Journal.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, Dad. Thank you for introducing me to Flannery O’Connor, Seamus Heaney, and Ann Murray, among others. Your love of music and literature is one of the greatest gifts you gave me.

Bālāsana

My father taught me how to move 
a human body: running, calisthenics, 
skiing concentric circles atop a lake.

In the backyard, he balanced
on his head while I popped snapdragons 
and did backbends beneath the apple tree. 

He held the back of my bicycle 
while running beside me and chanting 
his favorite mantra, Now we’re cooking 

with gas! before letting go and watching 
me pedal away down the sidewalk. 
Together, we ran hills and beaches, 

suburban streets and city alleys. 
When he could no longer run, he found 
yoga. He rooted in place 

at the head of my childhood
kitchen table, poring over ancient texts
and murmuring Sanskrit. When I visited, 

we unrolled our mats in the living room 
that smelled of lemons and medicinal 
marijuana. His favorite was vrikshasana,

tree pose, pushing the sole of one foot 
into his straight, supporting leg. Our tight 
shoulders prevented us from steepling

our hands above our heads 
in the classical shape. Instead, our arms 
angled out in wide Ys, reaching 

neither towards each other nor 
the heavens. In a framed photo
on the wall, a younger him holds

a newborn me, his two hands cradling
my damp, fuzzy head. In yoga class, two weeks 
after we buried his eternally stilled 

body, my teacher said it was normal 
my spine might need re-alignment. 
She suggested I sit on my shins, 

bend at the waist, and place
my forehead on my mat. Imagine
being held by the earth, she said. 

She told me to stretch my arms 
along the length of my bent legs and cradle 
my heels with my hands. My feet were 

bare and the skin there was rough. 
Child’s pose, she said. Stay there 
for as long as you need. 

Prompt!

Write about the color green. You need not be Irish in order to do this! You can write about it any way that feels right for you—listing everything green in your line of vision; trying to define a certain shade of green; or writing about the emotions that the color green evokes for you. As always, if you write anything green-themed, I’d love for you to leave a snippet—or the full chunk!—in the comments. 💚