They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock: My father, twenty-five, in the same suit Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack Still two years old and trembling at his feet.
My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat, Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass. Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns. My mother shades her eyes and looks my way Over the drifted stream. My father spins A stone along the water. Leisurely,
They beckon to me from the other bank. I hear them call, ‘See where the stream-path is! Crossing is not as hard as you might think.’
I had not thought that it would be like this.
family
21 June 1980
45 years
Today is the 40th birthday of my first-born and the 78th anniversary of my parents' wedding. Kind of dusty in here.
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This painting hung in my mom and dad’s house for 60 years or more. Now it’s my sister’s. Artist unknown. I love it. ๐ถ
St. John’s Park Slope: wonderful! Alleluia! The Lord is risen!
Six years after my dad died, three after my mom died, and this year, when my first two grandchildren are born, this resonates. Frederick Buechner, The Eyes of the Heart.
Each time members of the tribe die, the self we were with them dies too, which is to say that the kind of words we spoke only to them, were only to them, and the kind they spoke only to us are spoken no longer. But if outwardly our language is thus impoverished, inwardly it is enriched because when members of the tribe die, the words they were are added to the vocabulary of the heart, where we have more than just ears for hearing them. And each time a member of the tribe is born, a new word comes into being, and nothing is ever the same again.
I was recently inducted as a new member of the Grandparents Club. Per the club handbook, within 24 hours, I’d changed my phone’s lockscreen to a picture of the baby. (I’m smitten.)
I think of her and Dad all the time. The best is when they're in my dreams.
RER
Eight years since my dad died. It’s so great when he’s in one of my dreams.
Early Maggie (and early kids):
Late Maggie:
My dad, cousin, and sister, circa 1990. (I’m guessing). I love this pic. Nice sweater(?), sis!
Today, this little girl would have been 100 years old.
My true love and our first-born (at Bemelmans Bar in the Carlyle, NYC – also precious in its own way!) ๐ท
My mom died a year ago today, three months short of her 99th birthday. She was a time-traveler. Her death is still difficult to get my head around. She was a vibrant, fun, and intelligent woman, and I miss her a lot, even though she was in my life for a long time. Mom and Dad in their prime:
Firstborn.
Happy Anniversary to these two:
Miss them.