The Victorian Gypsy

                                                              Richard Moran 1979-2010
I will never dance at your wedding. I will never hold your future babies in my arms. I love you, my youngest child, and cannot beleive that you are gone from us. I remember before you were born, when strangers would come up to me and wonder aloud why I would have so many children. (In the 1970's big families really weren't considered to be politically correct.) I love all my children, but you were special, because you were the baby.
So many memories are going through my head tonite.  The story times and tea parties we would have when every one else was in school. Pokie and Benjie. The long talks. Watching wrestling (???) on tv. We thought you had a charmed life when you were little. Almost falling out of the car when the door unexpectedly opened. Riding your bicycle into a moving car. Riding the toboggan down the Killer Hills. Having the corner cupboard fall on top of you. And, oh yes, the little accident with the police car. I remember how you skipped school to go to the library and the coffee shop. Of course, you grew up, even though I keep seeing pictures of you in my head as a little boy. And we have always been proud of you and your brother and your sisters. I think you might enjoy hearing how we miss you. And you'd want to be around for the grand old Irish wake we are probably going to have.
So many terrible things have happened this year. And I have never cried. Not once. Not even a little. And now I cannot stop. On Monday it will be your thirtyfirst birthday. And we will say goodbye. May the wind be always at your back.