Sunday, December 27, 2009

Sunday morning, again

My brother called while I was putting up this post. He said, "I don't know what came over me on Friday. It was like a wall between me and the phone. And Saturday, I just couldn't move. I'm a little better today." He says something more or less like this every year. We both do. I told him that I felt like I'd been run over by a truck on Saturday. He said, "Emotionally?" I said, "Emotionally and physically."

He said, "It was all those little kids running around. Eating in shifts. Luckily Mathew (that's Lenore's grandson) poured gave me two glasses of Scotch. That helped."

It wasn't all the little great-grandchildren running around. Or the dinner in shifts. "Is it in the DNA?" Well, I've had a lot of therapy, so no, I don't think it's in the DNA.

I don't remember my mother who died when I was twelve. Or the dinners at Aunt Marion's house before then. He does. He came back from the Army in 1944, so probably, we sat at the same table until 1951. Or maybe not. He was off in Europe when our mother was dying. My father called him in Paris where he was spending some of the inheritance from his grandfather. During this phone call, I got a hint of how much of a shock that phone call had been. "I didn't know." No one knew. Not even my mother's sister. That was then, when cancer was a word not spoken. I reassure him that no one knew,  no one. "Not even Marion?"

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