Family

"We need to make sure to get together more often, because I don't want to only see you at funerals," my cousin said, as we gather for the first time in a number of years. We have come together at South Bend, IN, to the Notre Dame campus, where my dad and his brother had gone to college. My aunt, my uncle’s wife, suggested this and it is the perfect place, filled with memories and the future, as my nephew is touring it as a potential school to attend after he graduates from high school. 

It is beautiful, and crazy hot and humid. The heat index is 110 degrees. You know we love each other, because we would never be walking an enormous college campus together in that kind of heat for any other reason. 

The weight of the air matches the weight of my memories. We look so much older, compared to the last time we were together. My uncle is dealing with a serious health problem. He is the last of my dad's family, almost the age when my paternal grandfather died, and he struggles to walk because his legs are weak. His floppy golf hat is perched on his head, and as he gingerly moves along the sidewalk, from behind, I see my dad. Same hat, same walk, as he looked that last summer he was alive. Grief beat down and I worked to move through it and focus on what was in front of me. 

We are together, and it feels crucial to stay present in that. 

My uncle has my dad's voice. When he talks, and laughs, it's like dad is in the room. Dad died at 49, almost 40 years ago. You think you can't forget people you deeply love, but you do. You forget the creases in their face as they smiled. You forget their smell. You forget their presence in a room. You forget the sound of their voice. When my uncle speaks, I hear dad and it is a comfort to have that connection, again. We are mortal, but those who have died really do leave traces for us to follow. 

We reach the Grotto below the Bascilica. I am not one for praying. But, I am taken by the impulse to light a flame to burn for dad; for my cousin's step-son who has recently died, unexpectedly; and for my uncle. Afterward, I watch as the next generation, my nephews, light candles for their ancestors. The candles are in racks that descend from the stone wall, like the descent of generations. We spend quiet time sitting on benches, under sheltering trees. One of my cousins drives my uncle and mom back to the bookstore, where we will all meet up before heading back to the motel. The rest of us, head back out into the heat and sun. The campus has a large tree-filled quadrangle, and we head for that. The shade soothes my emotions as much as my body. It is quiet, the quiet of realization of impermanence, of softly exhaled breath. 

There is a lot of laughter that night. We play card games and take over a private room in our motel. My aunt's brother joins us. I haven't seen him for almost twenty years. As we talk and cajole each other, I surreptitiously tape-record some of our sounds, determined to preserve what I can of my dad and his family. Of course there are pictures, but the sounds envelop like a blanket of hugs, and I am trying to keep them for later. 

The next day, many of us head to Indiana Dunes State Park on Lake Michigan. It is another "heat danger" day. There is quite a line of cars to get to the parking area, about 2 miles long. We decide to stay in it. The lake is on my nephew's bucket list. My cousin has it on her own list of state parks to visit. We are here, we have time, it makes sense to stick with the plan. 

The wisdom of that came into question a bit, as we make our way from the hot parking area across scorching sand to try to find a spot with shade. It is about a 10-15 minute walk. The problem is mom is with us. She is almost 81. We forget that. She is also just through a course of antibiotics. We forget that, as well. I give her my sunhat, and she seems fine. She REALLY wanted to have her feet in sand and be near the water, as this is her own connection with my dad. He talked about coming here when he needed to get a break from studies. So, we continue. Luckily, we find a small bit of free sand under some tree shade. Mom sits on top of the cooler and half of us go swimming. 

The water is clear and cold, a delight. My nephews and brother join me and we float and frolick for over an hour. Those who aren't in the water have to be getting overheated, so we make our way back to the spot on the beach where mom sits. She says she is having a wonderful time and has that look she gets when filled with wonder at time and family and where her life has brought her. However, a few minutes later, she asks where the restrooms are. Upon hearing they are a distance away, she looks concerned. Then, it becomes clear that she is about to throw up. I manage to find a bag for her to use. As she leans into it, I can feel how hot her back is. I take the hat off of her head, grab a towel and ask my nephew to soak them in the cold lake water and bring them right back, which he does. After squeezing the water out of them a bit, I put the hat on her head and wrap the wet towel around her. She seems to get immediate relief with that. During all this, everyone else begins packing up and my husband makes the hike to get our car, begs the park rangers to let him drive to the closed parking lot that is right behind the spot where mom sits on the beach, and we get her into the air-conditioned cool. 

It is hard not to be incredulous that we, that I, could be so naive about her ability to handle the heat and the walk across the beach at her age. Again, it’s a sobering reminder that time has moved on, we are vulnerable to its wear-and-tear, and therefore it’s important to be gentle with each other.

That night, the card game is raucous and the stories and teasing are flying. Eventually, most of us wander off to bed. My brother and his wife, sister, cousin, and nephew (who is interested in Notre Dame) stay up longer, together. We are getting every last drop of each other, at this moment, not wanting our reunion to end, not wanting to only be together at funerals. 

We are all back at our homes, now. Back to the dailiness of our lives. As daylight fades, I turn on the recordings I made of our voices, together, laughing in unison and sense the lilt of their love taking a seat in my marrow. A smile lights my face.