|" T O G E T H E R A G A I N "|
A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON
By Franny's daughter . . .
Coincidentally, by Paul's daughter too,
It's inordinately quiet in the house I grew up in. Childhood bedroom doors our enthusiasms pushed open to jump on each other's beds or share a secret or play another summer round of Monopoly are closed now. People and memories are sleeping, even the ones from the West coast contingent who flew in tonight from their other timezone.
The youngest brother was here first when I pulled up the long driveway I'd learned to back a 1971 red Camaro out of using only side mirrors. Our first hug mirrored the sides of emotion that dug the depth to devotion of parents who gave life a full-fledged thriving. We acknowledge where words are superfulous that constant laughter churned achievements into places heavens hailed. The younger sister arrived next with the middle brother closest to the Cleveland airport. As he headed an hour's drive home, before his return the next day and the calling hours one after that, and the funeral one after that, and the final family farewells one to be after that, neighbors who were friends and ladies of the church who became extra sisters to our mother, trickled into a gush of how a sensitive stream splashes bounty.
The care that comes in foil dinner platters tastes unsuspiciously like sausages, rigatoni, cabbage rolls, saucy meatballs and love that begets love. The baked delicacies of pineapple zucchini bread, homemade cinnamon rolls and orange cream pies mingle on the kitchen counter and table where I've arranged yellow tulips from Mom's gardens midst thoughtful breakfast items and even good hearted pizzas and beer.
Condolence callers come in sad but leave with the kind of light that laughter's resilience rekindles to teary eyes. Both comfort and energy emanate the stuff that hugs are made of, and words no longer need sound to speak their better volumes. Cheer responds to challenge when we open their share and tender our current trivia query ~ "What was Mom's favorite flower?" (No two same answers have collided - she loved them all. There'll be no clearcut winner, or they all will be, which makes more sense.)
The brother just two years younger than I, whose spirit once mailed me a real tumbleweed just because I marveled at its wonder, lands after midnight at the Pittsburgh airport. More family from the sister burst in a few hours ago, rejoined generational joy. More stories swapped. A toast to Franny, clinked 'round the kitchen table. My childrenfolk and love take to the road before and just after the crack of dawn's early light. The more we're together, the more we sense Mom's alright.
Yes, on a typically sad page where the news is dying, our Mother, Frances Kozel Pilarcik inserted a photo of her with Dad under the heading "Together Again".
God Bless the Lady who held the hand
and kissed away the tears.
And God bless all of you,
whose worldwide webbing reach
is so touching . . .
You've bolstered me,
for the hurts and healing
of the next two 'morrows.
Good Night. I sleep perchance to dream
of the beginnings this sleeping house shares.