A few weeks before her demise, which at the time was evident to all, I was reading my mother a story. My voice choked when I came to a passage about death, and I could not go on.
Mom, in the way that mothers do, knew exactly what to do.
She gently placed her hand on my arm and spoke in a steady, matter-of-fact voice. “I will always be with you,” she said.
That was nearly nine years ago, and of course I now know that she was exactly right. She has never left my heart or mind, and she has been with me since.
That’s the way that families work. The connections between mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters are immortal.
By virtue of birth, we all get a family. If we’re lucky, it is one that is nurturing and loving, and one in which the inevitable quirks and flaws are tolerable, perhaps even endearing. It becomes one in which memories are made, cherished and passed along, creating the stories that are the foundation of self.
And if we’re very lucky, we sometimes get the chance to also mold a second family, one that is the progeny of choice.
Having just returned from a summer reunion of such a pseudo-family, I count myself among the very lucky.
There are five of us men who once were boys together in Ohio, and our wives who somehow — miraculously, really — have embraced each of the others as something akin to beloved brothers-in-law. As for the five of us, among the great many things upon which we agree is that each has been extraordinarily lucky in love.
This is the year we all turned 60.
To celebrate, we rented a spacious beachfront home on St. George Island, a sparsely developed barrier island off the Florida Panhandle. It is a hard-to-get-to place with sand dunes, pelicans and the funky vibe of a classic beach town.
Years ago, we pulled off these summer sojourns regularly, at campgrounds in Canada and upstate New York and at rented vacation homes in Cape Cod and the Great Smoky Mountains.