At the end of the day (so to speak), all we have are stories. And I don’t mean to diminish their value by saying “all we have,” as if this is nothing. In fact, isn’t it everything? Don’t the minutes and moments and remember-the-time-whens accumulate and dissipate like fog in low-lying land? It’s like this: for more than 10 years, I’ve been meeting up with my siblings annually at Dad’s house, where we sit in the garage with the big bay doors open where we can stay dry while thunderstorms pass through, where we tell stories and create new stories, and just as the storm passes and leaves everything fresh and new, so this visit passes into memory – and into story. Thank god for story.
At the end of the visit four years ago, as I was putting my car in gear to pull out of Dad’s driveway, I looked in the side-view mirror to see Dad and my sister Carolyn waving at me, Carolyn doing that imitation of our grandmother who used to wave a hankie at our retreating station wagon on those childhood visits, and I thought, as I often do, that this could be the last time I’d see my father.
Carolyn died three weeks later. Just like that, the Carolyn stories were a complete set. There would be no more.