We shape our lives around the joys of those we love. Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

I perch on the faded wooden bench,
balancing precariously on a well-worn
turquoise vinyl cushion and try to avoid sliding onto the floor.
The restaurant is humming with locals, while we out of towners
scarf tortilla chips and homemade salsa from red plastic baskets,
as we wait for our street tacos,
our drinks making sloppy, wet rings on the Formica tabletop.
I crunch quietly as Dan and Molly discuss the roots and evolution of Texas music
and Lyle Lovett’s place within it. The legendary members of his band.
And what makes it large instead of just big.
I think of the times I sat watching Jimmy and Dan have these conversations,
the way both of my children soaked up these moments with their father,
how much Jimmy would have loved to be part of this one.
To debate with his dad, one up his little sister or expose a hole in her knowledge.
I can almost feel him, lingering at the edges.
Nodding his head as he soaks in this familiar exchange.
As if response, Molly throws her head back and laughs.
Her fully body belly laugh, so much like her beloved brother’s.
As I study her face, thinking of all that she has lost, her expression changes,
her face morphs and for a few precious seconds, she is Jimmy.
Back where he belongs, balancing our family, seated at the table. Wholly alive.
Here.