I just wrapped up a wonderful Fourth of July weekend with my family. Seventeen of us gathered at my father's lake house for four full days. The youngest was four years old; the oldest was eighty-two. We came by the way of seven different vehicles from five states. We did the typically family stuff -- we ate, drank, talked, played games, boated, and stayed up too late. We easily floated in and out of conversations, spent time with the neighbors, took walks. We've been having these annual gatherings centered around the birth of our nation for over a decade, and each year's celebration seems to take on its own flavor.
When the universal departure day came, the house looked like a tornado had swept through it. We deflated the five inflatable mattresses, hauled towels and sheets to the laundry, and packed away the still damp swimsuits. Bit by bit, my father's house resembled its old self rather than an European hostel. Carload, by carload, the goodbyes started.
It's not that most of us weren't ready to leave on that final day. We all understand that there can be too much of a good thing, but the goodbyes are wrenching. I will see some of these people again within the month. For others it might be a year or two. Even so, we are firmly connected through landlines, emails, cell phones, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. It doesn't change the goodbyes. Tears are shed every year. Not lighthearted, happy tears, but the type that leave an empty place in my chest. The ones that take me 30 miles to leave behind. The kind that claim a little bit of my soul each year.
Our goodbyes haven't always been tearful. They used to be simple goodbyes. Something to suffice until the next reunion. But when my mother died, we changed and so did our goodbyes. Now every hug goodbye is laced with the unspoken knowledge that it may be the last. Yes, it is overly dramatic and highly improbable, but who knows what the future holds? Those goodbye hugs with their strong embraces carry more meaning than any words can. They speak volumes about how much we care for each other. We might tease and bicker, but the embraces reveal the hard truth of our commitment to one another. Even the fierce hugs can't adequately contain the sentiments, and so they often flow forth as tears.
Since my mother's death occurred more than twenty-two years ago, one would think that we would have eventually outgrown the tears. Adapted to the changed circumstances, maybe. But we haven't. If anything, my tears have a greater intensity now. When I was younger, the tears shamed me. I looked at them as a weakness and something to be hidden if possible. I'll admit those feelings still persist, but as I've aged I've come to understand that those tears come because I am so grateful for these people I love so much. Each of them is so vitally important to who I am. I still believe that the tears might be over the top, but since I seem powerless to control them all these years later, I have accepted them as tangible blessings. My tears are the physical proof that I love and am loved in return. Why should I be ashamed of that?
