The Rose and the Blossom
Atlanta, GA
April 24, 2021
My father was one of ten kids, the first of whom died as an infant. I knew or know the rest, some better than others, but all fairly well…at least at one time or another. As of Wednesday, only half of them remain.
Two of his six sisters died a quarter century ago…the eldest one of colon cancer, a younger one in a car accident. My father died a decade ago, of pancreatic cancer.
Wednesday, esophageal cancer claimed another of his younger sisters. The last few days, sifting thru memories and photos, I’ve envisioned my aunt Isabel strolling thru the Pearly Gates, and reuniting with her mother. My grandmother also died this week, but 27 years ago. Her date of death is the day after her daughter’s.
Till a family reunion in the mountains last Fall, I hadn’t seen Isabel in years. Unbeknownst to me, a few years ago she moved to Atlanta to live with her namesake daughter, which afforded us the pleasure of recently re-acquainting with both…including over brunch last month, and in hospice last week.
After seeing Isabel infirm on Saturday, I called one of her sisters. Moira is three years younger than Isabel. Both always seemed more like my older sisters than younger aunts. Relative to most of my grandparents’ ten children, Moira was about the closest to Isabel in age, so they grew up together. And, notwithstanding the vicissitudes of geographic distance and family duties, remained close since.
Moira had previously suggested to me that she wanted to visit Isabel within the next week or so. After returning from hospice, I advised that she do so within the next couple days. I’m glad I did. She and her husband, David, arrived in Atlanta Sunday afternoon, and went directly to hospice.
Isabel was alert (albeit quite anxious and often incoherent) when I was with her the previous day. By that night, her anxiety had increased. The next morning she was heavily medicated, to relieve pain and alleviate agitation. From then on, she was rarely responsive.
But Moira was glad she took the opportunity to visit her older sister, even if only to privately reminisce, whisper affection, and say goodbye. She was confident Isabel heard her, and knew the message was reciprocated.
Moira and David stayed with us Sunday night, before wending their way back toward their home in Iowa the next morning. On our deck, under blue skies and over white wine, we caught up.
It was wonderful to do so, and to be reminded how much we have in common. To our mutual appreciation of fine wine, we added a love of books, an affection for France, an affinity for good conversation, and an aversion to much of the faddish imbecility that now passes for conventional “wisdom”. Moira even shares my preference for the Tridentine Mass! If only one were offered in Ames, Iowa.
As dinner disappeared and the white wine transitioned to red, we solved the world’s problems, and renewed our appreciation for its pleasures. Given the occasion, we naturally reflected on Isabel, the rest of the family, and on the happenstance of how we managed to re-connect.
Like a fresh rose thru a pile of manure, beautiful things can come from unsavory circumstances. Late last summer, with the world well on its way to Hell, I was talking to David about the novel 1984. I suggested he read it, and went upstairs to retrieve my copy.
When I pulled the book from the shelf, I was reminded how this hand-me-down paperback came to my possession. Opening the groovy early-70s cover, I saw inside where my eighth-grade aunt had written her name.
Seeing her script, I realized that the last time I’d seen Moira, the Internet was nascent and the Twin Towers were still standing. It was high time to track her down. I went to “the Google”, typed her name, and received a phone number. I sent a tentative text to what in all likelihood would be a very confused recipient, and probably not the one I’d intended.
And, as it happened, it wasn’t.
A few hours later, I received a response. I’d knocked on the wrong door, but I was in the right neighborhood. I had inadvertently reached my cousin Anna…“Moira’s kid”, as Anna put it in her reply…who I’d not seen since she was a small child.
After she gave me her mom’s number, Anna and I exchanged a series of texts, and essentially introduced ourselves. I told her about my family, my job, and life in Atlanta.
She told me she lives in the Bronx and…all things considered…was doing well. At that time most of New York remained closed, but she was still employed, so considered herself fortunate. We said goodbye, and promised to stay in touch, which we’ve done.
Now being armed with the right number, I pulled the trigger on another text. This time, I hit the target. Moira welcomed the salvo, and we continued an exchange of friendly fire. After telling me she and David had lived Iowa about as long as we’d been in Atlanta, she told me Isabel lived near us…and had terminal cancer.
Meanwhile, by one of the many social media channels I’m not on, Isabel had sent separate messages to Rita. Soon thereafter, after receiving my address from Moira, Isabel wrote me an email inviting us to join her, her kids, and two of her sisters in the mountains. Our reunion…long overdue yet far too brief…had begun.
This week, it was cut short. But it rekindled wonderful memories, and fostered new ones. It revived old relationships with my aunts, and sparked new ones with my cousins. As with all such soil, this must be cultivated. Time is too short to let it lie fallow.
God may have reclaimed His rose. But it still blesses us with its blossom.
JD
