An emigrant’s view: Death and burial in Ireland

“I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There, midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.” — WB Yeats

The above poem is on my great-aunt Bridie’s memorial card. She lived to over 100 years old — old enough to receive her cheque from then President Mary McAleese. She was buried in her native Kilmacthomas next to her husband, during a raging storm, where the doors of the church slammed and the rain came down in sheets. Tradition has it that a storm during a funeral was an indication of a happy life.

‘Faire’ or ‘tórramh’— means ‘wake’ in Irish. Say it like ‘fwa-reh’ / ‘toe-ruv’

Mam and Dad in one of their last photos together

My Dad was waked in the traditional Irish way. Mam was too, with both of them laid out in the back bedroom of the house. For Dad’s, my brother in law, Chris, stayed the night in the same room — slept beside him — as a mark of respect. It’s not okay to leave a body unattended before interment. I know some folks may consider this macabre, but I’ll never forget the kindness that was shown. At the wake, a constant stream of people — over days in Dad’s case — called to pay their respects and share memories of them. Family and friends arrived from all over the country. Sandwiches and tea and cakes showed up out of nowhere, and the kitchen and front room were buzzing with relatives, friends and neighbours. A stream of people made their way to the room where the body was laid out, they would say a few words or a prayer, and sprinkle holy water using a sprig of palm which was placed on a table beside the coffin.

I was numb throughout Mam’s wake, and it really only hit me on day of the funeral, with Mam laid out on the bed in the spare room that used to be the garage, the winter light streaming through the windows, and the fragrance of lilies from the flowers that Eliz had left. I remember how beautiful she looked — like she was sleeping. During the night, I had popped in to see Mam a few times, to talk and to try to come to terms. I was there during her last minutes so I knew this was really real, but at the same time I couldn’t accept it. That would take months — if it even has at all, and it’s now four years.

When I die, please bring me home to Ireland, and have a wild traditional Irish wake, same as we did for my Dad and Mam. I don’t want people being subdued and sombre. Let’s have booze and laughing and music and stories of good times past. Brenny Rourke and I have a pact that we will be the seanchaí to each other’s wake, depending on who goes first. There are wild stories to be told. Then, all done — place me in the ground in Whitestown in Rush, beside my Mam and Dad. This is all I ask. There are worse places to end up, than in an old graveyard with a church built by rescued French sailors, shipwrecked off the coast of Skerries in the 17th century. It all makes sense, and is actually comforting.

The view from Whitestown, looking across to Lambay Island

Living in America, I sometimes feel these things are maybe sanitized and minimized out of existence. Back nearly 12 years ago, a friend and colleague, Samir M., died suddenly of a heart attack. His family flew in from Algeria for the funeral. What happened then, I’ll never forget. After a hasty ceremony, they lowered the coffin into the grave. A big yellow backhoe showed up and shoveled dirt into the hole, then — bam, bam — slammed the back of the bucket down on the soil to pack it down. I was with a friend who’s wife is from Guyana, and she and I looked at each other in horror and disbelief. Samir’s family just looked on in shock. I’m not sure if this is normal practice but it left me more traumatised than anything else. I’ve never seen anything more disrespectful, and I really don’t want the same to happen to me.

• My younger sister and my Mam both had a simple, cotton-lined wicker coffin. I will have same.
• Our family undertakers are Massey Brothers, of The Liberties and they will do repatriation and civil funerals. I will arrange this in advance.
• Please take the ashes of the love of my life, and bury them with me so we can be together again. His family have already agreed to this.
• I am pagan, and I do not want a Christian ceremony. Brigid and Lugh are special to me, and the land of my birth is sacred. The pagan community in Ireland, and Pagan Life Rites, will know what to do — they are my spiritual family and I love them and trust them.
• Go to Solas Bhríde in Kildare — yes, they’re Christian nuns — and light a candle from the Eternal Flame. Use this please, to light the candles at my wake and funeral.
• As is our tradition, please have someone stay with me at all times until I am buried — it was always a task of the menfolk, but it doesn’t really matter.
• Finally, I would like the inscription on the headstone to be in my native language.

And all will be welcome, regardless of denomination.

— Allie Cassidy, January 2020 — updated April 2021