Last Saturday my Aunt Mary was buried after succumbing quickly to cancer. Although she had lived in California nearly all my life, the burial took place in Springfield, Mo., where she grew up and where I now live.
I hardly knew anybody at the funeral except my Uncle Harold, my dad’s youngest brother and Mary’s husband of 66 years. Uncle Ralph, the only other of five sons to survive, also was there, pictured on the far right, next to Harold.
When I got to the cemetery I saw Harold and Ralph talking to a couple I didn’t know. It turns out this was my first cousin Mary, Ralph’s only child, and her husband Gary. Mary’s mother died when she was three, the year after my birth. At age 52, I had never met my cousin from Virginia.
That seemed odd, because I visit with her dad every year or two. And I’ve spent time with all four of Harold’s sons, even though they all live on the West Coast. But cousin Mary’s and my paths had never crossed. In the few moments we had together, we discovered we both have been married 32 years and have three sons in their 20s.
After the service we said goodbye. Mary and Gary soon flew back home. The brief experience of meeting a long-lost cousin left me yearning to find out more.
Mary invited my wife and me to visit them and we urged them to come spend time with us. I hope it doesn’t take another half century to get better acquainted.
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