Burden of family, unassumed

Word on the street is that Don is going to move, again.

I’ve heard authoritative sources say that Don’s recovery will reach an inevitable, almost preordained, plateau — assessed by clinicians & constrained by the law. These sources know more than I. Nonetheless, I might not fully agree. I’m not sure.

20 years ago, my 91-year-old grandfather Justin died a lovely death. I saw the whole thing. The best spirit, the good angel of the love of his life, later bane of his existence, Fina Madrid — well her better angel came to his Harmony Hall window to claim him home.

15 years ago my retarded Aunt Theresita died in hospice. My Lab Ally mourned at her funeral at Franciscan Friary in Mount Airy, Maryland.

24 years ago my grandmother, Fina, whispered in my ear the moment she died.

Prior to their declines, they were scattered between Miami, Florida and west-est Texas. Prior to their deaths, they’d lived near my parents for some years in Maryland. By hook, crook & stupid hope, Pat & Pete had cajoled resistant ornery selfish difficult flawed Theresita, Justin & Fina to Maryland. During those out-years, a family that had never existed came to life. Actual Sunday dinners happened. They laughed. They didn’t harangue. This past Sunday over pasta, my Ma said to me & E:

“I got my Dad back”

Here’s a known-known for me: in the years to come, I hope that E doesn’t regret questions unasked; “rules” not questioned; conversations not had; burdens not assumed; hopes not harbored.

I get it. 93 is a dog’s age.

Talk amongst yourselves.

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