Thursday, September 15, 2011
When, earlier today, I called my dad for our daily chat, I asked him to tell me about their wedding, years ago. It was modest, he said—the ceremony conducted at Southwestern Presbyterian Church, where my mother grew up, and the reception—sandwiches, champagne—held in Swarthmore. Afterward the newlyweds set off for a drive toward New England, but my father, wracked with a fever, soon brought them home. "There were no phones, of course," he told me. "And so we had quiet those first few days in our new house together. Your mother got out the sewing machine and began to dress the house with curtains."
That would be just like my mom, making things beautiful. And it is just like my dad, today, to make my mom the story's center. I send them both my love at this hour—my dad just down the road from me, my mom perched high in heaven.