Dad sent out a text to the family thread on March 10th. Mom’s birthday was coming up, the first since we lost her last August. Since then, our family has been dealing with a year of firsts. I received my first solo singing of “Happy Birthday” on my birthday in November. Up until now, it had always been a duet. First Thanksgiving, first Christmas without her. With her birthday coming up on March 23rd, I realized that I had not been back to see Dad in Massachusetts since Mom’s funeral. Dad’s text brought that into even sharper focus. I know Dad’s faith sustains him as his ancient heart deals with the loss of his bride of 67 years. I also know his last line in the text was sincere. This was not a command performance.

My plans for that weekend were not final as I considered my options. I knew my youngest sister, who lives across town from Dad, would be present for him. Responses to Dad’s announcement on the family thread, comprised of Dad and his six children, included my other two sisters weighing in that they would be in Scituate for the weekend to support Dad. I was still unsure.

After a restless night, I busied myself with sifting through old family photos as I prepared for my upcoming move to Savannah. A medium format negative fell onto the desk from an envelope of old photos. I have been through these boxes dozens of times since they were passed to me in 2016, and I don’t recall seeing a negative of this size in any of the boxes. Looking at it, I could tell the image depicted a young woman dressed in the style of the 1940s or 1950s. I turned on my scanner and set it up to reveal the photo.

It was Mom in the mid-1950s. I may need my Aunt Maureen’s help with the context of the photo. This may be from Mom’s graduation from St Saviour High School in Brooklyn. I say that because something resembling a diploma cover is visible beneath her gloved hands. The most mysterious element of the image is the reflection of a gentleman in the mirror. My Dad spotted him right away. The photographer did not know he would be the topic of speculation seven decades later.

The Universe was nudging me. I started making plans to head north. I contacted my youngest sister, who lives across town from Dad, to let her know I was coming. Then, I began looking for flights from Southeast Virginia to New England. (Flying to Providence, first class, was $400 cheaper than flying “Economy Plus” to Boston!) There was one room left at the Inn at Scituate Harbor. I booked it.

On March 21st, I flew to Providence with a layover in Philly. Gone are the days of daily direct flights from Norfolk to Providence available while I was still on active duty with the Navy. I was stationed in Newport Rhode Island in the late 1980s and early 1990s. I remember hopping on the morning Piedmont Airlines flight (later US Airways) to Norfolk, attending meetings at the Naval Station, and being on the evening return flight to Providence, a 30-minute drive back to my home in Portsmouth, Rhode Island. On the layover this day in Philly, I glanced up from my seat in the terminal to catch a glimpse of an American Airlines A321 in heritage livery for Piedmont. The Universe was having some fun with me.

I arrived in Scituate on Friday evening in time for some Chinese takeout with family at my youngest sister’s home. We caught up on each others lives, kids, and latest news. With Jeopardy on the TV in the living room , my two younger sisters, niece and brother-in-law shout answers, some correct, as if we could influence the outcome on the screen. We talked about Mom’s mass scheduled for the Sunday that would have been her 87th birthday. Dad had reserved the 7 a.m. mass in memory of Mom. I had to laugh at the thought of Mom getting a “sunrise service” one month before Easter.

After we have had our fill and leftovers found their way to the fridge, I grabbed a fortune cookie. Chastised by my niece for my reach; I was informed that the fortune cookie chose their diner, not the other way around. We have a family gag related to fortune cookies. Upon opening a cookie and removing the slip of paper within, the bearer should read, “Help, I am being held prisoner in a Chinese bakery!” As my sister adhered to the family tradition, I liberated a small slip from my post meal treat. Message received.

Saturday morning, I took a walk in the crisp cool air along a trail near the wind turbine outside of Scituate. A text notification let me know that my younger brother was on an unannounced four hour dash from New York across I-84 and the Mass Pike to visit Dad and four of his siblings gathered along the Massachusetts coast. I arrived at Dad’s condo before my brother rolled in. He came with food prepped for Dad’s fridge and fiddled with a cabinet door that was a little wonky. From there we moved over to my sister’s house for an early dinner. My older sister and her husband were already there as were her oldest son and his partner. Time flew by while we caught up, ate, and kept an eye on the NCAA Tournament on the television. Just after dinner my brother headed home to New York. I appreciate that he came all this way for a very short visit before heading back for home. My older brother was missed. My visit was a last minute decision and my younger brother only confirmed he was inbound an hour before he arrived. We all felt bad that we had not coordinated this weekend better. This time of year, my older brother is usually volunteering with Veteran adaptive skiing programs. As a veteran myself, I appreciate everything he does.

Sunday morning’s alarm came at 5:30 a.m. so I could meet up with everyone at 6:45 at St. Mary’s. Temps were hovering around freezing. Really Dad, isn’t there a 9 or 11 am mass? I was surprised at how the church filled up even at that early hour. I think Dad was happy to have us with him in the church as mass was said in remembrance of Mom. After church we were off to breakfast. The waitress made a fuss over Dad. It was a lot of fun.

I was able to spend some time alone with Dad over the weekend. We went through family photos I had scanned from as far back as the 1930s. We laughed, told stories, and teared up a bit. We talked about his time in the Navy and the lifelong friends he had made. He talked about flying from USS Intrepid and USS Forrestal. Missions, training, deployments, and the places he visited in those days. We talked about baseball, the Red Sox (their team), the Mets (my team), and Mom’s interruption of the line at a Doris Kearn Goodwin book-signing for “Team of Rivals” to have her dog-eared copy of “Wait Till Next Year” signed. The author and my mother dished a little bit about the Boys of Summer, two kindred spirits who followed the Brooklyn Dodgers in the late 1940s and 1950s. So many great memories that elicited laughs and smiles. The grief softened a little with each story told and old photo revisited. I know Dad thought he was babbling on, but I was hanging on every word.

A rainy Monday morning signaled my time to leave. My younger sister and I met at Dad’s condo to say goodbye before we left. A few more minutes with Dad before her long drive home to Pennsylvania and my flights home to Virginia. Dad was all smiles. I hated leaving.

My sister and I ended up working our way through traffic in our respective cars on Highway 3 and then on to I-93. I lost sight of her as I exited on to I-95 to the Providence Airport. I couldn’t help thinking about the firsts coming for Dad and his children; Mother’s Day, my parents anniversary (they were together for 67 years), more sibling birthdays and Dad’s birthday at the end of July. Then we will arrive in August and the first anniversary of losing her. Sitting in the airport, watching the rain I thought about the conversation with Dad on Sunday when he told me about a trip with Mom to London. They went to see “Les Miserables” in the West End. Dad confided that the last lyrics sung by Fantine, Valjean, and Eponine during the finale will always remind him of Mom.

Take my hand
And lead me to salvation
Take my love
For love is everlasting
And remember
The truth that once was spoken:
To love another person is to see the face of god.