GRIEF Poem: St. Patrick’s Day, by Sylvia Marie

When I was a toddler.
St. Patrick’s Day was just another day for me,
beside the occasional flash of green.
It held no meaning.

Then I hit double digits, and I was handed,
my ancestry on a plate.
Hello I’m Sylvia, and I’m half Irish
I would proudly say,
Even if the stories that my grandad told

were filled with famine and pain.

Then I grew-
Up,
Up,
Up,
Learning to translate my grandads’ accent so others would understand,
Dressing in sparkly green dresses for the parties,
shamrocks in my hair,
Irish dancing, hand in hand.

Just months after I turned fourteen,
St. Patrick’s Day came back around.
Mum took my sister and I, up to London for the parade,
Oh, how I was so proud.

I’m Sylvia, and I’m half Irish.
I said to every passing stranger out loud.
The parade had dancing and music, and I even had a sip of Guinness.
Mum said I wouldn’t like it-
(But I did)

And there I bought a balloon-
Look, mummy, it’s as green as grass!
and pulled it along to the car.

Smiling from ear to ear,
I felt I could fly-
Up,
Up,
Up,
To the land of Ireland;
I felt that there would never again be anything to fear.

Then I fell-
Down,
Down,
Down.
When mummy said daddy had decided to leave last night-
(Last night when we were dancing and singing, and the parade was alive)
He was in his car, ending his life.

The shamrocks turned to vines that wrapped themselves around my throat and squeezed.
Leprechaun ghosts crawled from the shadows with hands holding green balloons.
Irish music replaced with screaming and an ache the size of the moon-

St. Patrick’s Day would never be the same-

Look, mummy, everything has fallen apart!

Hello, my name’s Sylvia, and I’m half-
–
a person.