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passing the torch The woman who owned this house had been dead less than four days, buried in a snow-covered cemetery just hours before. And yet here the house was, full of laughter and happy people. More food than twenty-some people could eat, and drinks aplenty. A dozen people around two card tables in the living room, their money on the tables, and cards fast aflyin'. Another ten around the dining room table, maybe making a little less raucous noise, but our cards were sliding quicker, the dollar bills piling in the middle a little faster. As I listened to the cheers of victory, and wails of bad cards, I glanced up at the wall on my right. There, in an antique oval wood frame with the fragile domed glass, the matriarch of this part of the clan stared down at me, from a photo nearly four score and ten years old. She was just a young girl then, wearing a fancy cotton dress. Next to her, in an identical dress, in a mirror-image pose, sat her twin sister. My mother. My cousins told me the last two words out of their mother's mouth as she slipped into her final coma were my mother's name, and then the name of my mother's dog. Whether she was greeting them, or again scolding the dog for jumping up into her lap, well, I guess we'll have to wait until we follow her path to answer that. Today I watched as my aunt's three sons stepped comfortably into their roles as patriarchs of their clan. And her three daughters-in-law easily hosted guests in her home. Three generations got reacquainted, passed around old photos, and updated on family news. As the laughter continued, and more cards flew, I nodded briefly to the two young sisters up on the wall. They'd have been pleased. |
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