A Hope Chest of Light Keeping

Sunday Supper

Yesterday we took the long, beautiful drive to Nini and Ray’s for a late lunch/ early dinner. I’ve never been to that part of Pennsylvania, gloriously american and small-community based.

Nini has a garden that would make anyone jealous. The flowers and plants were in full bloom, the shade from a great big tree casting shadow on the fenced in the yard below. Bella sat on a picnic table while we ate puddin’ pie and hoped against hope that something for her would drop. It was quiet and serene and although hot in the afternoon sun, it quickly became one of those country afternoons colored by the humidity and sitting still. John and I met Mom and Dad and Kelly and Kyle there-having almost the whole family there together was really special and made me long for a time when we can get together, all of us, more often.

So much of my childhood is punctured by parties and holidays and the train of people parading through the front door, dropping purses, giving kisses, ribbing one another and starting the laughter that was as constant as the sunrising. And then the blissful silence that followed when the last guest would leave and we would be left in the dusky twilight watching the gloaming gather as we waved goodbye from the door.

How I long to go back, just one more time, and wave goodbye a little longer to everyone. Maybe even run out for one more hug. Maybe ask everyone to stay a little longer this time, and watch the fireflies awaken with me.

I could mention that we won’t always get to be together like this. That some of us will have to travel on to places the rest of us have never been. That we will be left behind wondering where they’ve gone. And how long it will be until we hear them come through the door calling out our name again.

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