My home is filled with family this week. My youngest is getting married on Saturday, so we’re all gathering to laugh and play and be merry together. Today, though, I’m taking some time to remember my brother, who is missing. He died ten years ago today. How he would have loved all the family festivities and the wedding, his youngest son the Master of Ceremonies, his “other son,” as he often referred to Will, the groom. We are taking advantage of the gathering of so many family members to also celebrate my daughter’s becoming a dermatologist last month, a profession that her uncle had recommended to her when she first told him she was going to be a doctor. We are all getting older, he told her; you go to school, I’ll set up your office and we’ll make a killing off all the people who want to look young again.
Getting older is a blessing we don’t count often enough these days. Today I’m grateful for the wrinkles and grey hairs, for the grown children and for Jack, our grandchild, filling the house with squeals of delight as uncles toss him in the air – and for the memories of my brother who will never grow old.
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