An airline sent me notification of a low fare flight and I called my sister: “What are you doing from September 4th to the 7th?” I’d like to say that Jaci told me to “Book it, Dano,” but she did not, but when I did book the flight to Reagan National Airport in Washington, DC, I tried to schedule my arrival at a time that was convenient for her; she is, after all, a hard-working journalist and would be working on a Thursday afternoon. But I had forgotten how resourceful she is, and how many of my nieces and nephews are gathered near her. I had also forgotten how long it had been since I had last seen her.
Jaci dispatched my brother’s eldest daughter, Corinn, to meet me at the airport. Jaci’s youngest son, Taru, greeted me at the door to her house, and later showed me the den established by his son in the basement of the house. Nashon and his friend, “Birdy” — dubbed “The Thundercats” by Taru — flowed into and out of the house at odd and irregular hours, to and from work and shenanigans. My sister’s oldest daughter, Kelli, came to see me, and Carmen, her youngest daughter, ordered her son to “stop by to see Uncle Joni.” I got a hug from the bear-like college freshman, and remembered the 9-year-old cub to whom I had given my Nikon D70 camera to roam among the family, taking pictures. Travis, Cameron’s older brother, stopped by later that evening, and the former Marine gave me a back-cracking hug that pinched a nerve in my trapezius muscle and almost killed me.
Carmen and her husband, Will, hosted a gathering in the “Boom Boom Room.” Their basement is decorated in black and yellow, the colors of the Pittsburgh Steelers, with Steeler memorabilia on every surface: magazines, “Terrible Towels,” potato chip bags, rugs, lamps, cups and mugs, everything that can be imprinted with the Steeler logo. It is the perfect place for a great sprawling pack of nieces, nephews, niecelets and nephewlets, a laughing and loving cluster of hope and pain. That weekend, as we played pool and partook of adult beverages (for though they are my babies, they are, in fact, adults), the frequent call of “Uncle Joni” punctuated the joyful noise. My sister and brother have children who have learned to love each other and seem to always demonstrate it. Corinn, my brother’s oldest daughter, spends every available moment with her younger siblings, Curtis and Lauren, who live in another state. I draw a better breath in the atmosphere of their love, and in the company of my sister.
During that visit, my sister and I spent quiet times reading and talking of what makes her heart happy. I found a bird feeder in her yard, and hung it from a tree. She can see birds from her kitchen window now. In the song “El Camino,” Amos Lee refers to “a murder of crows,” a strange and whimsical collective noun. I thought of the emotional sharing and giving that my family exhibits when we gather together, and the great group that we are can be called nothing other than “a loving:” a loving of family.
My sister uses social media to comment on the state of the world and of her heart. After my visit to her, she posted this: “…a man at the Metro station asked me why I was in such a good mood. I said I don’t know, but I think today is a good day because my heart was hungry for my brother. Thank you for coming to see me, CJ Woods, III.”