Mother was an Irish lass
who kept her rambunctious nature
mostly hidden after she married Dad,
such a proper English gentleman was he.

Eyes of blue and skin so fair
she had, with flaming red hair
she kept confined in a chignon
whenever she was within his sight.

But when he was away
her hair came down and her fiery
spirit led us to dance and sing.

We’d dance a jig around the table,
out the door and up the hill
laughing and hollering
the way only the Irish can do.

She had an emerald green petticoat
she kept in a secret drawer
and would wear on such occasions
and carefully hidden under her dress
on each St. Patrick’s Day.
She told me once that Dad never knew.

Her funeral was a somber affair
not the Irish wake she would have preferred.
When the time came for Dad to join her
I found underneath his pillow,
folded into a neat and tidy packet,
Mother’s emerald green petticoat
and a photograph of her dancing a jig
upon the hill her petticoat plainly showing
her flaming red hair in wondrous disarray.

© Marcia Miller-Twiford