It began raining yesterday morning, a light mist that became an easy rain, just enough to keep the walks wet without forming puddles. It continued into the night, making sleep easy.

We’ve had company from Colorado, my sister and her husband Carl. He was a longtime friend of Lydia’s before he married Lora. They came to see us knowing that I cannot breathe at a high altitude and so, could never come see them. It was lovely and charitable.

The house was full of family that night. My son and his wife and children joined us for dinner. Everyone was loud and cheerful, talking over each other, correcting parts of some else’s stories, reaching for bread and pasta, wiping last bits of sauce with crusts, passing paper plates of ice cream, before a hurried exit. It was a school night.

On Tuesday we made hamburger soup and fresh rolls, my sister and I sharing the kitchen like it was 60 years ago. We sat often, drifting from one story to another, old mixed with new in a collage of how we were spending our lives, filling in the gaps that cards and calls don’t complete. The soup simmered as we talked; the bread rose.

Yesterday was their last day with us and our conversation became more thoughtful, a bit more deliberate. We had more lulls and pauses, wanting to say important things, reluctant to get to the hugs of goodbye we were so close to sharing. At our age it is an unspoken reality that we might not see each other again. Each visit, one more life-gift received. Eventually we watched baseball and had dinner and it felt like the most natural and loving thing to do. It was real. It was safe. It was us together now, in this moment without issues. It was the great American Zen meditation. Dinner in front of the TV.

Finally, we stood on the porch and waved them away into the dark. When they were gone, we turned and went back into the house. It felt emptier for their leaving and we both breathed deeply. Later, time would fill the void with a cozy recollection and some pictures passed around but, for now it was important to feel the absence, to recognize the separation that made their coming special. Each a part of the other.

Blessings

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