Bittersweet

Every year my cousin, who was also my uncle (my grandmother died, and her sister married my grandfather), had an enormous Thanksgiving at his house. Everyone was welcome, and I mean everyone. His ex-wife, his motorcycle cronies, all the family. Parties at his house were warm and wild.

He died recently as did his ex-wife, and his adult sons are having one last Thanksgiving at his house before they sell it. There will be fifty-five of us, all related.

The dinner will be bittersweet. A memorial.

He was a character. A collector. He loved tequila and cigarettes, motorcycles and antique cars, and art. But he also loved people. He was a generous man. A caretaker. If you needed something, he was your guy.

He, along with his ex-wife, taught his sons to be kind and generous as well. And, in the end, kindness and generosity can define a life and leave a legacy. So, tomorrow, we will eat and talk and laugh and say goodbye.