2015 hrs -- It's a big house and it's a full house. I have pronounced Mr. G. dead, informed the coroner's office and called the funeral home. Wisely sensing that no one is in need of my emotional support, I settle in an unoccupied corner of the large family room and wait for the funeral home to arrive.
It's easy to imagine Mr. G. as the patriarch of this large, bustling family. I can see him sitting in his comfy chair, offering both advice and admonishment. As I watch the family mingle, I decide that he was a very good man.
Some of the family have divided into small conversational groups. The talk is soft and the laughter unobtrusive. Several bottles of wine have been uncorked. I hear from the kitchen:
"No, no. Leave her alone. You know she has to do this."
I see what's happening. Mrs G. is cooking. As though a prima ballerina, she moves gracefully from refrigerator to counter to stove. Never hesitating... never wondering what to do next. If Gordon Ramsey were in this kitchen, he would stay out of her way and actually keep his mouth shut. In short order, a large pot of fagiole is simmering on the stove. I am in awe.
The family, while very cordial, largely ignores me. I am not offended in the least. They don't need my comforting words, my shoulder to cry on or a hug. They just need me to take care of business. They are skillfully taking care of the rest.
The aroma from the kitchen is beginning to torment me. I wasn't hungry at all when I first arrived, but now I'm in agony with spasms of hunger mixed with twinges of envy. I want what they have. A little pasta fagiole and a large, loving family.