FAREWELL TO MY FATHER
I have just helped to bury my father and, as the family immersed itself in the unexpectedly consoling groove of funeral rituals, a sobering truth assailed me. With the loss of a parent, I’ve finally been claimed by adulthood.Death sidled in like a thief in the night, as is its way, but we determined to celebrate his life even while we mourned his passing. There was solace that he died at home as he’d wished, and that his dear, exhausted invalid’s body was spared further indignities.I never believed you could gladly witness the death of someone you love, until the day Frank Devlin was taken. I would not have kept him alive a moment longer, fighting for every breath: I wished him peace and now he has it.During his wake hundreds filed in to pay their respects, drawing together the multiple strands of his life.Men told us how he’d trained them in GAA sports, fostering a devotion to them, at a time when they were barely tolerated in the North. His best man described his determination, no hint of nerves, 47 years earlier on his wedding day.
His sister recalled him paying her admission, plus a financial inducement, to attend set dancing classes six decades ago. A friend recounted how, as young teenagers, they’d led out greyhounds at race meetings for a shilling a night to help their families survive.
We seized on every snippet with gratitude - another component in the mosaic that was our father.
We stopped the clocks at 4.20am and I ironed the shirt we laid him out in, a brother checking his gold Pioneer pin was fastened on his lapel. We dressed him in a green tie, for he was that misunderstood term nowadays, a patriot - his love of the Irish language and culture were deep-rooted.
At 82, he had a reassuring line of descendants to show for his life. Seven children, 11 grandchildren; two more Frank Devlins behind him.
He belonged to a generation where children left school at 12, as he did, to support younger siblings. But he never lost his reverence for books or his desire that his offspring should have access to the education he was denied.
We always laughed about his persistence in treating us as juveniles; there was reassurance in that too, however - in a father convinced it was his duty to set you straight if you strayed.
His faith defined him. We used to joke about the prolonged rosaries he had us chanting any time we went home. But we were comforted, saying the prayers he had taught us over his body, before the coffin lid was closed and my brothers carried him to Church.
That’s the only time I’ve ever wished to be a man - so I could set my shoulder beneath the wood and feel his weight. Instead I walked behind, following him on his final journey.
At his graveside a small granddaughter threw in a soft toy she treasured, to keep him company.
And that’s when another truth overwhelmed me. Our father may be gone but his legacy outlives him: love guarantees remembrance.
