Between the contents of the box
that looked contagious,
and Billy's headstone shots
and Billy's headstone shots
and printed pages,
I learned of William Cronin's
second marriage,
of children dying in
early years who did not manage
to be recorded.
Baby Patrick and tiny Ned
among other ancestors
now not related,
except in memory and retelling.
Kate, of Kate of Johanna,
a railwayman's wife,
passed The Famine and O'Donovan-Rossa
but died of typhoid
back in Milleennagun.
The roadside Patrick McCarthys,
connected by a woman
certainly walking and running on empty
called Honest Mary Riordan.
A flurry of descendants
to reward her steely labours,
and wives to curb and enhance
the paternal inclinations,
like Auntie Sheila.
Our grandmother knew
that photo had to be taken.
She would die too soon
and most of us would be too late.
She gave us Seán to tell the tales,
knowing full well he would guard the secrets,
until years of tiny details
had been wrung out of certificates.
He did her proud.
(Explanation: Two of my cousins and I have been putting our family tree together. One cousin, Cath Walsh, is the twin of the subject of a poem I wrote in 2018, Michael Walsh's Shoes.
When we had gone as far as we could go with the information we had, there was a phonecall of revelation from our uncle, Seán, to flesh out the names and dates. And Cath, in their family's poetic way, said, "After years of tiny details wrung out of certificates".
The Auntie Sheila mentioned was our grandaunt. It seems that our grandfather always said he was the youngest of thirteen children. Considering the infant mortality rate he may well have been.
However, we have also heard that he believed there had been another child, Ned, born after him. Auntie Sheila, married to our grandfather's brother, always said, matter-of-factly, "they were a family of seven").
