Ten years ago:
my granddaughter Iysa, brother JF, and Darlene, my sister-in-law

In the last days of my mom’s life, I spent six months with her in hospice. Those months, especially the final weeks, were precious. We had been at odds for much of our lives, but as she faced the end, we found our way back to each other. We made peace. For that, I will always be grateful.

Now our family is walking that road again.

My older brother, pictured above, has been living with stage four bone cancer and is now dealing with declining kidney function. We are together for some of these days, and my time with him feels familiar. Sometimes it is sitting quietly, a presence that says I’m here.

We talk about the past. About the days when he played baseball in Pohaski’s field and our dad showed up after work, still in his shirt and tie. The boys called out, “Mr. C., let’s see if you can hit.” My brother remembers Dad stepping up, taking an easy, fluid swing, and sending the ball clean out of the field. Moments like that make a first-born son mighty proud.

Memories. Sometimes that’s all we have left.

I’m grateful that I had the time to spend with my mother and now with my brother. I know I’m lucky.

I also know that time is not always ours to give, and distance can make it hard to be there. Families can be complicated. Old wounds and past traumas often surface when someone is dying. Sometimes we need to protect ourselves by setting boundaries or stepping away entirely.

But for me, in these days, I found forgiveness with my mom and renewed closeness with my brother. For this, I’m forever grateful.