The Saoirse Chronicles-Page 5

There is nothing quite like a good cup of coffee on a quiet, rainy Sunday morning.

Would it be one of those mornings spent curled up in the window seat, gazing out over the countryside with a good book, a mountain of pillows, and a warm blanket? Or would she head off to ten o'clock Mass?

For most Irish Americans, Sunday Mass is more than a tradition—it's a ritual. It was certainly woven into the fabric of Saoirse's childhood. Nearly every Sunday, she was shuffled off to St. Benedict Parish in the Bronx with her two great-aunts, who insisted on sitting in the front pew. They wanted the best view of the altar and, more importantly, to hear every word of the Monsignor's homily. For Saoirse, however, the highlight wasn't the sermon. It was the sisters from the parish school, strumming their guitars as they filled the sanctuary with music. They became the soundtrack of her childhood, performing at nearly every Sunday Mass and every holy day, but never more beautifully than on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. Their music transformed the church into something warm, joyful, and unforgettable. Like any child, though, Saoirse's attention rarely stayed on heaven for very long. Her stomach was usually rumbling. She spent much of Mass thinking about what came afterward—the family's stop at the Bruckner Blvd A&P grocery store to pick up fresh rolls from the bakery bins near the registers before heading home. Breakfast around the kitchen table on Bradford Avenue was the real reward. Surrounded by her grandparents and her two beloved great-aunts, she felt safe, loved, and completely at home. Sometimes if she was lucky enough some of her uncles would pass through, especially her beloved Uncle John and if he had time, they would play a round of Cooties, one of her all time favorite games! While there would be other special places, in her heart, Bradford Avenue would always be home.

The decision that rainy morning came quickly. There was simply no chance she was leaving the house. Her three cats lounged nearby while rain steadily tapped against the windows, gently persuading her to stay exactly where she was. Some days solitude felt lonely. Today it felt restorative. It would be a day for books, coffee, and quiet welcome distraction from the familiar ache that Father's Day always stirred. Even after all these years, there were still so many unanswered questions about her own story. She had only a handful of clear memories from early childhood. Some were scattered fragments—celebrating St. Patrick's Day, the swings and sand box in Waterbury Park, flashes of laughter and sunlight. Others remained vivid, preserved almost perfectly by time. Yet both kinds of memories shared one curious detail. There was never a mother. There was never a father. Whether it was because they were absent or because their constant fighting overshadowed everything else, memories of them were surprisingly scarce possibly even suppressed. Instead, Saoirse's childhood revolved around her extended family—especially her grandparents and her two great-aunts and often times the Timoney's next door. She remembered making mud pies in the backyard beneath the sweet scent of grapevines. Her grandmother, legally blind, leaning from the third-floor apartment, tossing lollipops down to with astonishing accuracy. A swing set, her swing set, beautiful flowers; lilacs and bleeding hearts-her aunts favorites. To this day, she could still map every inch of Bradford Avenue from memory.

Every room. Every corner. Every creaking stair. Strange things like, the glass block window in the bathroom downstairs that when the sun hit it just right, there was a glorious rainbow. Or the old coal furnace in the basement with the floor that was caving in from rot. The religious statues that watched over every hallway. The stool next to the stove where she would watch her aunt cook dinner; quite literally her nose in the pot! Annual photos by the window on the back porch and drawing on her aunt's bedroom wall. Drawings that were so special and sacred she forbade them being painted over. There was the upright piano tucked into the far-right corner of the living room beside the couch, where she would pound out dreadful songs while her family applauded as though she were performing at Carnegie Hall. And then there was her favorite place of all. Her great-grandfather's workshop. Hidden in the basement with its own tiny entrance from the alleyway, it felt like discovering a secret world. Although he had died before she was born, she somehow felt deeply connected to him there. He had been an accomplished carpenter, draftsman, and artist. His paintings still hang in family homes today, quiet reminders of the man who built a life from his own two hands after immigrating from Northern Ireland. Occasionally, Saoirse would open the old pay ledger where he carefully recorded jobs completed for neighbors. Every handwritten entry represented another day's work, another small contribution toward providing for his large family. She often found herself imagining him standing exactly where she was. This was the house he had worked so hard to buy. This was the workshop where he had built furniture, repaired neighbors' belongings, and dreamed about the future of his family. Now, four generations later, she wandered among his tools, feeling strangely close to a man she had never met. The detached house sat on a quiet street in the Bronx, three stories tall with bedrooms tucked into every available corner. It had to be. There were a lot of people living under one roof. One thing was certain. They were fiercely proud to be Irish. Hardworking. Devoted to family. And deeply devoted to God.

Being Irish American meant she received every sacrament, attended Catholic school, and went to church as faithfully as the sunrise. Those rituals became part of who she was through college. As an adult, however, her faith became far less straightforward.

Church attendance became sporadic. She explored other denominations—Protestant, Baptist, Evangelical, non-denominational—searching for a place that felt like home. For a while, she found a welcoming Christian church in Greenwich. But after moving farther out of the city and into suburban New York, she struggled to find that same sense of belonging. Especially after her aunts and grandparents were gone. So, she sampled a little of everything. Sometimes Catholic. Sometimes Christian. Sometimes nothing at all. Ironically, whenever she returned to a Catholic Mass, she found herself quietly irritated by the revised prayers. The words she had memorized as a child—drilled into her by her family and reinforced through years of Catholic school—had been rewritten. She knew the old responses by heart, and every change pulled her out of the moment.