The Postscript

There are so many troubles I have never known. There is a world of pain I have never experienced. While I was dwelling on a couple of hastily dressed kids with messy hair quietly doodling in the front pew, there were wells of pain and loss and confusion right in front of me that I could not imagine.

Auntie Jo would head downstairs to wrap presents and, at some point, their dog, Twinkie, would make a mad dash out the door. We’d all scour the neighborhood until we found Twinkie. Then Auntie Jo would go to change her clothes and emerge, more resplendent than the Christmas tree.

I tried to imagine where I would wear these pants, and nothing came to mind. I could imagine them swishing around my ankles. I would wear platform shoes and enormous hoop earrings. I imagined the person I would be, wearing palazzo pants, and a whole new world opened up before me. A world that, in actual fact, did not exist.

I wished I had a few more words. I wished I could understand just a bit better. I no longer care if I use the wrong form of a verb, or forget a word, or say something embarrassing. It makes no difference at all. What I care about, more than ever, is being able to understand these people—my new friends.

My mother's family was a Swedish farming family and we asked for strength to keep on working. Feasting in Paradise might have been fine for some, but that was a little more than any of us could imagine. Asking for strength so we could keep on doing what we had been doing seemed like a pretty safe bet and, perhaps, not too much to ask.

This cup holds more than my coffee. This cup holds the memories I am making, day by day, sip by sip, as I sit at my desk in Mexico. It holds the bright markets and the feel of the round cobblestone streets beneath my feet and the smiles of the countless friendly people I meet every day.

I tried to tell him that I don’t make dietary choices for anyone but myself. But then I realized this was not quite true.

There is no need to save these gloves for a special day. Because this day—this going to church together and having coffee and sharing pastries and plans day—was as special as any day could be.

I love the idea of a day—or the better part of a week—set aside to tell stories like that and to keep the memory of my grandma, and so many others we have loved so much, alive.

I know young people hate to call. They text and instantly respond, and that seems to work well. When older people text, they tend to forget to check their messages, and balls get dropped. I’m guessing I’m not alone in this.