It was my grandmother, a woman known as “Mom,” who first taught me the meaning of family. A widower since her youngest twins were just shy of eleven, she asked her seven children to gather after World War II to celebrate the safe return of her sons. It became tradition, an annual event to honor and emphasize the importance of family.
Hugs. Barbecued hamburgers. Sun tea. Piñatas. Disagreements. Swimming. Snap peas. Enchiladas. Laughter. Tears. Warm kisses.
Sixty-six years later and long after “Mom,” five of her children, and a handful of grandchildren have left this earth, her family still gathers every summer. Celebrating family . . . the good . . . the bad . . . the essential thread of connection.
The good. The bad. The essential thread of connection.
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