Mom was sure we'd get through the storm if we ate
a hot breakfast first. Eight inches of snow was blowing
into twelve. Outside my pickup was warming up

for the 220 miles of hazardous Montana spring weather.
We filled our plates, drank fresh juice, and answered our cell phones.  
Friends from Billings were warning us the sooner you leave

the better. Which way should I go, I asked Dad, Judith Gap
or Roundup? I rehearsed for certain trouble: tire chains, 4 wheel low,
melting snow for water; but the worst that's ever happened to me

are things that never did.  Dad peppered his eggs
and blew on his coffee, then measured us
with that look. He jabbed thick Irish fingers towards

his two grandkids. Listen, I've got something to tell you. In the midst
of road reports and measured drifts, he told them their names
were born between the nose of County Waterford and the curve

of County Cork on sixty-nine acres of ancient O'Keeffe homeland.
He swirled a potato in his egg and repeated the words I was raised with:
You'll get to where you want to go by remembering where you're from.