I am an Irish lass.
From my mother’s line, I have a French, Irish, and English background; from my father’s, Polish and Ukrainian. Growing up, my mom would make corned beef and cabbage for dinner on St. Patrick’s Day. After I moved out, my father made a tradition of phoning to wish his “Irish lass” a day of celebration. This was a part of me that wasn’t his, and that he recognized. There will be no call to his “Irish lass” today. Until they are no longer here to do it, it’s hard to see all the pieces of ourselves our parents hold for us, and hold up for us. When I tuck her in tonight, I’ll quietly say “my Irish lass” as I kiss our daughter’s forehead.
Carrie Klassen writes about (and sometimes photographs) things she finds beautiful. She ghost-writes for thoughtful people with something important to say at PinkElephantCreative.com, teaches writing for small business at PinkElephantAcademy.com, and she shares her own words at CarrieKlassen.com. Carrie is currently working on a series of personal essays.
Organized under living.