The blackthorn was his father's, br a piece of Ireland br that the old man could still get his hands around br even as his hands grew weak, br refused to hold. My father br never knew Ireland; br when he gripped the walking stick br it was something else he was holding on to. br I watched my father br get old; he would stare at his hand br and open and close his fist, br try to fight the arthritis. br By then he had lost the stick, br and he could have used it br to work his grip, to beat br at the hard knot that was tying him up. br When he died he was laid in the ground br only a few feet from his father, br while in Ireland the sturdy blackthorns br were defying that sad land br and bursting with white blossoms. br br br Anonymous submission.