Sometime before I began trying to figure out the nomenclature of my grandson’s little cousins, something grand happened between me and a couple of “big”
cousins.
I had returned home one afternoon, just before Easter. A red light flashed on my phone message
machine. I pressed play, expecting to
hear a solicitor. Instead I heard,
“Hi Cousin Laura. This is Cousin Joseph.”
Somehow the sound of his voice (must have been the Brooklyn drawl) had remained familiar after some forty years. Forty years in which distance,
deaths, illnesses and changes of addresses had crimped our lines of communication - until that week before Easter, when the voice of my father’s brother’s son (his
Dad and my Dad long passed) sounded on my message machine. And in the long-distance
miles a mind can run in a moment, a marathon of decades sped by me: our weddings, our losses, our long lost tradition of sending Christmas cards.
I listened to his instructions to return the call And even though I knew I would redial and reconnect, I hesitated. Because I expected the worst.
I listened to his instructions to return the call And even though I knew I would redial and reconnect, I hesitated. Because I expected the worst.
(to read Part Two of this series, click here)
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