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to hold twelve in blackjack.”
A chuckle bounces through the air. Mom smiles gently.
“This past week, I’ve come to realize that Mr. Arthur taught
me the one lesson I’ve needed to learn for years. He taught
me what family means.”
The word family hangs in the air like the Goodyear
blimp. Since Mr. Arthur died, I’ve been thinking about
family, too. About my dad. I’d never be at his funeral. Could
you even call yourself a “family” if the only thing your father
ever gave you was his DNA?
“The day before he passed,” Mom goes on, “Mr. Arthur
and I were sitting right here in this garden. He told me that
the one true thing he’d learned about family was that it
didn’t have much to do with blood. ‘Family,’ he said, ‘are the
folks who stand by you when you don’t realize you can’t
stand by yourself.’ ”
Mom looks directly at Aunt Marty with tears in her
eyes.
“I’ve been a fool,” she says so softly it’s less than a
whisper. Still, Aunt Marty and I both hear her clearly.
Amazingly, I see her clearly, too. For the first time ever, I
see a woman who has been hurt by life, a person who’s
trying to figure out who she is and how she fits in. Just
like me.
Mom says, “For opening my eyes, and for the many
years Mr. Arthur was a kind, gentle member of our family,
I will forever be grateful.”
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