The First Anniversary of Muff's Death

Today marks the one year anniversary of one of the saddest days of my life, the day BJ Larson called to tell me that Muff had died in her sleep that morning. BJ had arrived at Muffs home early because I believe they were going to church, discovered her body, and was devastated. I will always be astonished that he had the presence of mind in such a situation to call me and tell me that she had passed away. I remember screaming "No, no, no!" into the phone and hearing my heart break. It was a dark day, but Muff's funeral was inspirational, respectful and despite the keening and tears, what came through was the love that everyone had for Muff, from her family, friends and community.
Go with God, my friend. I still miss you.
Here is a poem provided by the wonderful Aidan Maher, an Irishman who was kind to both Muff and I when we visited Ireland and who provided a phrase for me to recite at her funeral, about her worthy soul being at the right hand of God.

Bean tSleibe Ag Caoineadh A Mic - An Old Woman of the Mountain Laments Her Son

Brón ar an mbás, 's é dhubh mo chroíse.
D'fhuadaigh mo ghrá is dfhág mé cloíte,
Gan caraid gan compánach fá dhíon mo thíse
Ach an léan seo im' lár, is mé ag caoineadh'


Ag gabháil an tsléibhe dom tráthnóna
Do labhair an éanlaith liom go brónach,
Do labhair an naosc binn 's an crotach glórach,
Ag faisnéis dom gur éag mo stórach

Do ghlaoigh mé ort is do ghlór ní chualas,
Do ghlaoigh mé arís is freagra ní bhfuaras,
Do phóg mé do bhéal, is a Dhia, nárbh fhuar é!
Och, is fuar í do leaba sa gcillín uaigneach.


'S a uaigh fhódghlas 'na bhfuil mo leanbh.
A uaigh chaol bheag, ós tú a leaba,
Mo bheannacht ort, is na mílte beannacht
Ar na fódaibh glasa atá os cionn mo pheata.

Brón ar an mbás, ní féidir a shéanadh,
Leagann sé úr is críon le chéile –
S a mhaicín mhánla, is é mo chéasadh
Do cholainn chaomh bheith ag déanamh créafóig'!

Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart:
It has snatched my love and left me desolate,
Without friend or companion under the roof of my house
But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.


As I walked the mountain in the evening
The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,
The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew
Relating to me that my darling was dead.


I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer,
I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!
Ah, cold is your bed in the lonely churchyard.


O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave since you are his bed,
My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.


Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,
It lays low, green and withered together, -
And O gentle little son, what tortures me is
That your fair body should be making clay!