White Horses, Crosses, and Green

One day recently my daughter smiled at me, and I saw Johnny Depp. My first reaction was a double-take. Then my brain kicked into gear, and I started wondering.

He’s part Cherokee. Livvie has it from both of her parents- more from her father. In fact, that Cherokee lineage is how my husband and I are apparently related. Looking over the family tree we got a bit of a shock. Luckily it was well over 100 years ago.

Features are one thing. Features and expressions together are kind of crazy at times. It’s kind of cool, really, to be dark, throw a dark daughter, and then toss out a son who is described as, “white,” by his own sister before she even knows from white, brown, tan…

My son is white. Luckily he’s my mom’s variety, meaning he doesn’t sunburn. I was surprised he did anything this past fall, but lo and behold he’s still got a “tan” neck from the sun he got.

When my son was born, and for awhile, he resembled my daughter. In some ways. People said he looked like me. Maybe. Not quite. As he got older I saw my grandfather and my uncle. Mostly my grandfather. It’s in his expressions, sure, but it’s also in his features. My grandfather is where the Irish comes into the family. It didn’t really ping my brain a bit, until Jonas found his favorite book.

Awhile back my beloved friend sent me a jewel of a book called, Ireland, A Sacred Journey. Turns out it costs like, $80 in hardcover on Amazon now. Too bad my son destroyed it for resale, right?

Not even.

I don’t dump many books anyway. This was a no before he got hold of it. The thing is, he’s been carrying this book around for over a year now. He tore the fly leaf, and he tore a page in the center before he figured out how to turn pages. I removed the dust jacket and stashed it away for him. He flips and turns. Takes the book around the house.

And then sometime, maybe two months ago, he started leaving the book open on a specific page. Pages. 144-145. Part Four: Connacht. A photo of White Horse Hill in Clarinbridge and a photo of The South Cross in Clonmacnoise. If I shut the book he flips until he finds those pages. They stay. He’ll come back and flip, but again he returns to those photos.

He did it again tonight. I’d hidden the book for a week.

Ordinarily I’d just assume he likes the book. Makes sense. But tonight my daughter watched a movie she hasn’t requested in awhile. Tinkerbell and the Lost Treasure. During the credits a song by Méav Ní Mhaolchatha plays. Sometime in November my son started sobbing whenever that song ended. He’d be inconsolable. I finally downloaded it on iTunes so he could listen whenever. One night the week before Christmas I ended up asleep on the floor of his room with that song playing on repeat on my laptop until he fell back asleep.

Tonight he didn’t sob, but he whined when it ended. So I played it for him again. Sat down with him and sang it while we listened together. My voice caught while singing, because, I’m sorry, It’s beautiful, and he was sniffling, and I was sniffling. Song ended, repeat. Sang again. I’m an alto. She’s a soprano. I can sometimes manage it. He didn’t care. He moved his hands in the air, and when it stopped, finally, he motored on into the living room and went back to the book on Ireland.

Correlation, etc.

One of my strongest memories was a desire to see Ireland. I don’t resemble my grandpop a bit. I was still drawn. Hard. I don’t know why. I don’t care. Call it land memory, call it what you will. I only know I NEEDED to go. I also know I need to go back. I think my son needs to go, too.

I’ll take him. I know from experience it never goes away.