Phone calls this week from my oldest cousin to my sister and from my sister to me set up a lunch for the three of us in Hondo at a restaurant with as much history as our childhoods. We sat at a quiet table from 11:30 to 4:30, but we were anything but quiet since we see our cousin so rarely.
Story after story we pieced together our memories like a crazy quilt, nothing orderly but layered with colorful bits of lives we remembered. Throughout the reminiscing one theme emerged: women in our previous generations were tough. They were resourceful and assertive, firmly nurtured relationships, and expected the best of themselves and their families. By comparison, we also caught up with the disjointed features of later generations and what we miss about the dwindling number of family gatherings.
As we said our goodbyes in the parking lot, fresh addresses packed carefully in our purses, the poignancy of the moment hit harder. Questions about the likelihood of future lunches filled my chest and throat but never left my lips. The cold wind brushed over our warm kisses to remind us that perhaps we were in the winters of our lives, and one more hug might reaffirm a commitment not to wait too long to meet again.
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