She conned us into returning home and then resurrected Dad in the most lovely manner.
It arrived on a Wednesday out of the blue. Mom said, “Just dinner.” Nothing extravagant. Would love to meet you. Like she was asking us over for takeout and movie night, not planning a long-awaited ambush, she even included a happy face.
I ought to have known better. We everyone ought to have. My sisters and I—Vera in Seattle, Tessa in Chicago, and myself, Lucy, in Philly—had lapsed into this unspoken pact: maintain the distance, steer clear of the potholes. Grief is a peculiar, stretching thing, so we attempted to keep it together after Dad passed away. We each dealt with it in our own chaotic fashion. Tessa barked at everyone, I buried myself in work; Vera quit responding to group texts completely. Though it was no one’s fault, when anything fails without a defined culprit, you don’t know where to assign responsibility. We simply gave up.
Then came Mom’s note. Sent separately, same ones. As if she didn’t believe we would share notes.
We did not, however. But that’s the issue. Somewhere, under all the pride and wounded quiet, we missed one another. Lacked home. That meant we bought our tickets. Individually. Softly. As if it were unimportant.
The old mansion looked stuck in time, as though it had been holding its breath waiting for us. The porch swing still creaked the same way it had when we were children, and that stupid wind chime outside the back door still sung off-key every time someone opened it. Remembering how Dad used to open the door before I even knocked, often seeming shocked to see me, I stood on the front step a bit longer than required.
This time, it was Mother. Like she’d spent the afternoon practicing a smile, she donned her favourite cardigan and a too-bright lipstick. “Look at you!”, she cried, embracing me as though I were fifteen once again. Her hair had a rosemary scent. She had spent the whole day cooking.
Tessa came in 10 minutes after me, eye-rolling as though she hadn’t sobbed during the cab journey, and Vera was already inside putting down her bag. We all embraced. Not too far. Not too brief. The sort of embrace you offer when your stay length is uncertain.
The house smelled like Sunday dinners: garlic, lemon, and something in the oven. Mom had prepared enough food for a wedding. Warm bread that tasted precisely like the ones Dad used to sneak off the tray before dinner, two salads—two—mashed sweet potatoes, chicken piccata. I said you didn’t have to go through all this.
“I wanted to,” she said, filling our glasses with the sort of excitement that made me glare doubtfully. She even got a playlist going—soft, comforting jazz, the sort Dad used to hum while doing dishes.
Tessa caught my attention and muttered, What is happening?
I shrugged my shoulders.
Mom clinked her spoon against her glass after supper, just when I thought we had avoided the emotional landmine. “All right,” she said. You all have to step outside for a moment.
We complained and moaned like kids, but nevertheless followed her. Except for the string lights she had put across the fence, which softly illuminated the grass with a golden glow, the backyard was black. Three brand-new white laundry baskets sat there, smack in the middle of the yard. Simply…sitting there.
What is it? Vera began.
Mom remained silent. She took out her phone, grinned, and remarked, “That was his favorite image. Recall?
Not immediately, no. She then rotated the screen. Crammed into laundry baskets with our legs hanging out, giggling madly about something that had long since been forgotten, there we were—us three, perhaps nine, eleven, and thirteen. Dad had gotten it. He always claimed that was the time he realized he had done something correctly.
We all stayed still. At first, not. Then Tessa—predictably the first to break—walked over and fell into a basket, her knees snapping as she curled herself in. “This is absurd,” she said, but I noticed her grinning.
Vera came next, dramatically sighing. Should I become stuck, I am suing someone.
I hesitated, but the other two gave me that look—Don’t be the buzzkill—so I groaned and got into the last one. Under my weight, it cracked menacingly; that was all. We laughed out loud. Genuine, unguarded, ancient laughing. The sort that won’t let go and catches you by the ribcage.
When she snapped the photo, Mom’s hands were trembling. “He would have loved this,” she said softly.
She revealed the image to us. We were together, nevertheless, looking absurd—grown people packed into baskets. Grinning. Just as in the last one.
Then she acted in a way none of us could have predicted. From a small wooden box, she took three letters sealed with our names in Dad’s handwriting. My chest started to tighten.
He composed these before to his operation, she stated. He said not to deliver them to you until the three of you were all present. All together.
Opening my own made my fingers shake.
On that page, his voice came alive—funny, self-deprecating, intelligent. He wrote about his regrets (never taking us to Yellowstone), his greatest memories (the day we constructed a snow fort big enough to crawl inside), and what he hoped for us (that we would always find a way back to us other, even when it was difficult). He finished it like this: I don’t know where you are right now—emotionally, I mean—but I hope this helps. Rest in a basket. Laugh excessively. Come back when you are able.
I looked up to see Vera and Tessa both rubbing their eyes. Though she was grinning through them, even Mom had tears streaming down her face.
We remained outside for one more hour. No cellphones. No stress. Only tales. Joy. Calm.
After the dishes were piled and the wine had softened the sharpness of our sorrow, we remained up in the living room under blankets viewing old home movies. Dad waltzing in the kitchen. Dad strumming guitar on the porch. Dad surreptitiously recording every second and urging us to “keep it down.” It had been years since we had watched those clips.
It no longer felt like a trick. It was like a present.
Mom printed the new basket picture and framed it beside the original before we departed the following day. He would be really proud, she said. “Of all of you.”
And for the first time in a long, I trusted her.
At times, those we love most create gaps that seem too deep to fill. But every now and then, someone gives you a basket—and a memory—and tells you to try nevertheless.
Has something that basic ever drawn you back into love? Tell your tale down here. Love
