Remains

Bring the rocky cliffs of Skibereen and the long glances across the water and pondering of what it might be like to start anew
Bring the soft hills of Roscommon and the worn paths to the high places where dreams were born
Save the stories of arrival and hope found in city streets and tall buildings
Protect the roots where family was planted in the row houses that held the laughter of toddlers and hearty shouts of welcome home

Place it all in the cedar box under the window
The one with the broken statue of St. Francis on the windowsill
Out of the way of dust and time
Accessible when the need arises to connect with what was

Take them out at Samhain or Christmastide or Imbolc
The tender times of the year
Hold them and remember
Breathe in the scent of generations
The smell of moss and salty air and pipe tobacco 

The smell of hearth and hands at work

The smell of lilacs and attic hideaways

Tell the tales of long winters and the spring when the earth rejected the seed
Run fingers over the embroidered linens with tears and toil tangled in the thread
Feel the beads and the cross and the metal chain and hear the whispers of countless prayers offered by a lineage of souls fearless of death
Wrap it all in the handmade lace and the tulle from the veil on the high shelf

Sing the songs of comfort that illuminate the green hills and wandering paths
Proclaim the Word and grip the truth of victory with Alleluia on the tongue
Raise the eyes to Heaven's throne because Love has conquered the grave
All of this.

This is what remains.