The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2009

Letters to Kilkenny, 1868

Every day they waited, needles piercing cloth, piece work they would

turn in at the end of the day, no money coming til the end of the month.

Their ancestors owned land not far from there, every day someone

would whisper they had found a deed, but none stood up in court.

Every day they waited, listened for the mail, fingertips tired from pushing

needles through the cloth, no word coming from their long lost brother.

A great-great-aunt had visited once, an actress on the British stage, she sang

Irish songs to warm their hearts, went back to her life in London, toast of the town.

Every day they waited. Father Furlong promised to find him, hired a lawyer even,

Mr. Dunphy, who would search the emigrant newspapers for their brother's name.

Their great-great-grandfather fought in the Battle of the Boyne, escaped with

the Wild Geese to France. He was the one with all the land, now all taken away.

Every day they waited, whispered words behind lowered shutters, as news

came to their village of the situation at Ballingarry and the Fenian affairs.

For the three sisters sewing, it was not long ago they buried their brother Ned,

one of the few times they left the house, their weekly visit to Saint Rochs.

Every day they waited, one day a letter came. Patrick wrote from Susquehanna, had

a wife and baby girl. He edited the newspaper, had become a Methodist, led the choir.

Only two sisters left, Mary wrote him, and so wonderful to hear you might visit us,

perhaps you could send a small amount of money from your new found land.

Every day they waited, Patrick's last letter to them posted shortly before he died.

Buried near the Susquehanna, that's what Dunphy said, and brushed aside the fee.

Sharon Olson