My One-Eighth

By Yoram Ong

Grandpa brought pears, once a sack of turnips. “How’s school?” he asked.

I said, “Sixteen minus eight is twenty.”

He roared. “Close enough.”

He called me “the Irish one” even though our only tie was him, one-quarter himself. Still, he taught me rebel songs, made me kiss the crying Madonna, and swore Ireland wouldn’t be free until the blood vanished from her cheeks.

Later, when I told him I wanted to join the IRA, he said, “What for?”

“To fight.”

“Then what?”

At his funeral, the pipes wailed. He had said: “Play it for the lunatic boy who thinks he’s Irish.”