Three years ago John and I travelled to Japan after Christmas and spent the first anniversary of my mother’s death climbing and exploring Enoshima. Then Covid happened. And this was the first year we could travel again. We booked a trip after Lucy died and before we spontaneously adopted Eli, to spend Christmas with my brother and his wife in France. They’d just bought their first French house and John’s company shuts down between Christmas and New Year. It felt fortuitous.

It’s been an incredible trip and we are now packing up and readying to begin our two days of travel home. It’s trips like this that remind me I should journal more. And since I don’t have anything else to write with, I popped open this blog and decided to stretch the writing muscles again.

We spent today with a very hungover Dave and Jojo. We had lunch and went for a gorgeous walk. And wound down the evening in their cozy kitchen, eating bread and cheese and anchovy cream. We talked about life and relationships. We talked about four years ago when Mama Bear died. It’s not something we talk about a lot. We allude to it. We acknowledge it. But today we talked about it. The awfulness of losing a mother. The shit way it happened. The pain, the memories, the *lack* of memories. It felt nice to have those conversations with my brother – the person who has been witness to my life the longest. The only person who shares some of my memories. The only other one whose mother was also mine.

Earlier this week we talked about South Africa. I don’t like talking about South Africa. But it also occurred to me that Dave and I have never talked openly and frankly about what happened. And it felt cathartic. Necessary even. Jojo’s eyes widened at some of the pieces of the story. John looked solemn. We relived it but we didn’t. There were truths that were shared. It was important. It is a part of our history.

The same can be said of when Mama Bear died. We needed to talk about it. Between the four of us. Without censoring or editing pieces because of the pain of Dad or Lenny. Just siblings and spouses clearing the air about that time. Confessing the pain and blurriness. The quickness. The bottomless sadness.

All in all it was a good start to a new year. I feel closer to my brother and my sister-in-law. I feel honored to have seen and experienced the life they have built in this beautiful mountain town. It was a worthwhile trip for a million and one reasons, but that part – to me – is the most important.