Family Portrait

The first thing I noticed my first time in that house on a Friday night in 1988 was the family portrait hanging in the kitchen.

There were six of them in that family picture. 

I suppose I envied that frame. 

I never had a father so naturally, I've always been reserved around other people's fathers.  At that point in my life, I had never eaten a meal at a table with more than one other person.  I never had to learn to share, be it; toys or affection because I had no siblings. 

My comfort level is and has always been limited. 


First time in that house, that family asked me to stay for dinner.  So, I did.  I said nothing during that meal. 

It was an idyllic setting.  Table set, all the basic food groups in separate dishes to be portioned out to each person.  Prayer before the first bite.  And each family member talking with and to each other. 

I think my hands were trembling the whole time. 


Years went by.  At that point, I could walk into that house without knocking at any hour of the day or night.  And so, I did.  I had my own key, in fact. 

Thousands of meals later and my hands still trembled when I ate with them.

I could write out all these tiny details that still stick with me today.  I could talk about the sheer intimidation I felt even when words of kindness or concern were directed at me. 

None of those details matter. 

They don't know this but they were my family.  A lot of who I am now can be traced to them. 


The older brother whom invited me over for the first time, God bless his soul, befriended me quickly during my junior year of high school.  We were inseparable from that friday night until he left us in 2003.  I could mention how complicated he was or his personal struggles.  I could point fingers in many directions and attempt to dissect what happened. 

None of those details matter.

Last time I wandered the halls of that home, that family portrait still hung in the kitchen.  It had been relatively updated with current hair cuts, better clothes and of course, each were a little older than the original family portrait. 


The one and only time I have ever seen a grown man cry was at the funeral.  He was the silent, stoic and unaffectionate type of father.  Known in many affluent circles for his generosity and charity which his career had enabled him to pursue, he was a humble man.  I believe in my twenty plus years of seeing that man on a weekly basis, we rarely spoke.  I was intimidated by his title of father and he probably believed I was a bad influence on his sons.  Or at least, that is what I imagined. 

If you've ever seen a grown man break down; a man you believed was invincible to the worst this life has to offer... If you have witnessed someone so strong become so fragile...

Well, I isolated myself in the foyer of that church after the service.  Off in the distance, he was barely able to stand.  This six foot six giant of a man wept uncontrollably.  My thoughts raced.  My supposition was he was bearing the blame for his son's departure.  As, was I.  As, were many.

He slowly came my way and hugged me.  Twenty plus years of knowing him and he said more to me during that hug than all the years previously. 

His wife, turns out, took on the role of stoic parent.  She greeted everyone and thanked the hundreds of people who were there.  She smiled.  She held back her tears.  She was grace personified.


It's been twenty seven years since the first time I set foot into that home and caught glimpse of that family portrait. So much has changed.


I'm on the phone earlier today with my own mother.  She's doing her usual manipulative song and dance about her struggles.  I sort of just tune her out because she sounds like Charlie Brown's teacher whenever she speaks to me. 

While she was wah wah wahing on the other end of the phone, deja vu or a sense of irony hit me and I laughed.

Those details don't matter.

What matters, I suppose, is family.

I used to envy that frame that held together that 1988 family portrait.

Now, I am starting to appreciate my own.




Today, he would be turning 45 years old.  I could end this with some cliches or usual platitudes that should be self-evident.  But then, I, too, would sound like Charlie Brown's teacher.

Of all the things, my best friend taught me, introduced me to, embraced me with.... Out of every life changing, character buliding lesson learned from his life and passing...

Letting me be a part of his family was his greatest deed.

God bless his soul.