It’s been a rough year. We lost two family members to sudden, unexpected death. Circling the wagons, spending more time together, forgetting about the small stuff of old parent-child scripts, sibling jeolousies, and the misadventures of parents intuitively seemed right for this moment in our lives together.
Our time in the barrel started just over a year ago: a hard hit in August and a deeper cut 60 days later in October.
We hug more now, and the “I love yous” are thick as dragonflies on an August afternoon. Not syrupy sweet; just recognizing the mindful moment and the brevity of our existence.
The remaining son became blessedly insistent on a Sunday visit with his dad. His wife, children and his sister and her family also began to converge more often at Longleaf.
We began to eat together, swim together, talk and then, to laugh.
Pasta Sundays were born.
The first was August 12. The menu was lasagne bolognese, caponata, a raw veggie antipasto, garlic-stuffed olives, garlic bread and vino. Dessert was a huge bowl of green and red grapes.
We ate outside on the patio, kids and adults together, talking like there was no tomorrow.