May 17, 2018
Dear Dad,
I had a nice trip up to Baltimore for Susie’s retirement party. As you will recall, retirement is a bittersweet process, unplugging from a career that provided purpose and friendships. I was so proud of my little sister. People said so many wonderful things about her. They didn’t just talk about what a good job she had done or how effective she had been as a leader. They appreciated her subtle, dry humor and her patience and fairness. Some recounted stories of how she had made them feel welcome when they were new to the job and to the city. She had encouraged many through tough times, and regularly celebrated accomplishments. One person said that she was the kindest person he had ever known. Susie, in her typical self-deprecating manner, said to me, “It’s amazing how easy it is to be perceived as kind.” She is so like you.
We spent the next two days at her house, sorting, tossing, packing, getting her house ready to put on the market. She will be moving back to Texas. Of course, our family home was sold several years ago. Still, she is still going home. It has been said that “Home is that place where, when you go, they have to let you in.” But a place is not necessarily a specific a building. Home is family–people who love you.
I helped her install a new tile floor in the bathroom–something you would have done, if you had been here. I found a box of photos that you took 20 years ago, when you helped her to move into this house. And in another box, I found a letter that I wrote to you in 1979. Back in those days, before email, before texting, when we actually hand wrote letters. I will never forget that you wrote a letter to me every day during my first year in college. This particular letter had to do with Aunt Frances. She had recently been discharged from the hospital after a prolonged illness. The nature of the illness wasn’t stated in the letter, but I recall that she fell and broke her arm. In the hospital, she had a seizure, and it became evident that she was in withdrawal. For years, she had taken a “stomach medicine” that contained phenobarbital, and she was addicted to it. We joked about how this sweet little old lady with matching purse and shoes was a junkie. Frances was very sick, nearly died. She was never what I would call a pleasant person, and the withdrawal made her much worse. She said some very hateful things to Mom. But she was your sister, and you loved her and took care of her.
The old letter that I found was apparently intended as an apology for seeming unsympathetic to Frances. I said that I was glad that Frances’ ordeal was over. I said that I had been more worried about you than Frances—that it was such a strain on you. You always know what to say to make people feel better, to help them see the answers to problems. I said that it was a rare talent, something that I wished I had. I went on, at some length, to tell you what a wonderful person you are.
I said that I was sorry that the letter was not more cheery. But it must have touched your soul, because you kept it, all those years.
You used to have this saying, “A successful family is a self-destructive unit.” You meant that in reference to a nuclear family—that children grow up and build home of their own. But in a larger sense, a successful family is bound together by the kind of love that endures.
I can’t mail this letter to you. The postal service does not make deliveries to heaven. But I can feel you reading over my shoulder. Give Mom a hug for me.
Love always,
Gayle
