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| Category: The Sacred In Everyday Life |
Date published: August 15, 2005 |
 It's hard to imagine at times that we all came from the same bloodline, for we're all so different. As different as bolts of multi-colored, multi-designed material cut from the same wool. A patchwork quilt.
Our politics differ, I'm not sure, but perhaps the views changed with our religious beliefs. For some, these differences aren't of major importance, but for others, it estranges, is spoken of with derision. I find myself remaining silent, fearing to be caught up within a web of words. I'm like a runaway sheep, a black sheep, as my mother used to call the child in a family that was different. I wasn't always so. At one time, I ran with the pack. We all love each other, thankfully, that's the one thing that remains the same, ... despite our differences.
The uncles are dead, and the aunts are aging, all of them, and I knew I was seeing many of them for the last time. One lives in California, a place I've never been. She announced that, due to her advanced age, she wouldn't be coming back again. I knew I was saying goodbye, goodbye to a stranger. How could I call her anything but, I can count on one hand the times I've seen her, and yet, she was the reason I flew to the reunion. It's the blood connection I needed to reunite with. My need to weave together the stories of the past, the years before I was born, and make them part of who I am, and have become, to remind myself that I came from the same set of ancestral sheep. They are the pure breeds in the family, my mom and her sisters, pure Canadian French, their offspring, mixed breeds. My own heritage is Canadian French, with a dab of Belgium from my father's side. One of my sisters recently told me that The French aren't highly regarded in Canada, a fact I knew nothing about. The Canadian French in me forgets the reasons she gave, I'd like to stay proud of my heritage. Too much knowledge can be hurtful.
In addition to seeing family, the family that remains alive, my aunt voiced her desire to visit the family cemetery. I went along, as well as my mother. It was another reunion of sorts. My father and two brothers are there, as well as my grandparents and great grandparents, assorted aunts and uncles, as well as cousins. I had the chance to connect the dots, so to say.
At the reunion, the one with the living, I met two first cousins for the first time, ones I'd never met before in all of my sixty-years. I met one of their sister's four years ago, the one and only time I met her. She is now dead, a reminder of the briefness of life.
I listened to stories, of family history, ones that brightened, and others that saddened, and through them, it seemed the familiar fibers within the wool began to be seen. We were, indeed, like that patchwork quilt, different, every one of us, and yet, in so many ways, the same.
A rainbow colored quilt...my beautiful family, Catholic, Baptist, Charismatic, Seventh-day Adventist and everything in-between, Democrats and Republicans and few there were that stood in the middle. Extroverts and Introverts, dark hair and light hair, we ran the gambit. I even learned that a couple of them were poets like myself...except better, dare I call myself one. There were artists among them, too, like my son Rick, except he was the only sculptor. Some were financially healed while others struggled to make ends meet. I guess you could say my family is truly American.
When it came time to fly back home, I had a feeling of sadness. My mother is aging. In that family cemetery, next to my dad's name, is her name engraved in stone...minus a final date. The surroundings I know so well will one day be gone. Her garage with its torn flowered wallpaper, the place I lived until ten, will one day be a thing of the past. The "mansion" next door, the one with the holy water fountain in the hallway, will one-day be seen as gone, will belong to another...all but the memories.
I doubt I'll return home often after these ties have been severed. Take away the heart, and you take away the home. I took pictures, many of them, however, except for the aunts and a few of the cousins, I've already forgotten most of their names. Most are strangers I know to be kin...and in regards to their children? I haven't a clue as to their names, which cousin they belong to, or whether they are second, third, or forth cousins.
And me, I'm just a nameless face in their photos, too. Just one small square in that great big quilt...I'm the black one... the one with brightly colored spots.
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In My Own Words: Out-of-the-Ordinary Experiences
