In 1955, a resilient little Northern-Irish woman born in Belfast by the name of Bridget Foody boarded a whiskey freighter to start a new life in the United States. Over the decades, she became a nurse, a midwife, wife of David Albright for 50 years, mother, and grandmother, to her son Patrick and his 3 girls & her daughter Anne Marie and her 3 boys. One of those 3 three young boys, the middle child, was in Boston the day she died, on March 4th, 2016, 2-weeks before St. Patrick’s Day. She lived a full life, regularly praying the rosary, boiling potatoes, and celebrating her favorite son and grandson. One of those 3 three young boys, the middle child, was in Boston the day she died. That middle child was me. March 4th, I woke up to that unforgettable call. Me, a musician, was performing & producing one of the most crucial (important) concerts of my life that week, cornered I stayed in Boston, missing the funeral...left with only the winter holiday memories...left knowing she would’ve wanted me to stay because I was to become famous, as she said, even write her a symphony someday, as she had frequently reminded me. My tears hit the pavement as I walked to school. I ended up dedicating the day to learning an Irish funeral ballad that I had always wanted to perform. Only after she left, when it was too late, did I honor my elder. In Ireland, funerals are celebrations of life as heard in this major key, soaring with childish wonder, while in the end falling to its final descent, like a casket lowered beneath the surface...with a pedal lifting like the last clump of dirt covering our buried loved ones. I wish you could have seen what I’ve done. I followed my dreams, starting Irish bands, working on the biggest Irish productions and festivals in Boston. I wish I could show you how proud I am of you, how proud I am to be of Irish descent...and even though I wasn’t able to be there when you were laid to rest...I’ll spend the rest of my life remembering you.