There was an elderly black couple at Costco today and they were discussing the merits of buying locally-produced honey. They had been married a long time, I think, and were very comfortable in the easy way they talked together, and there was a dignity there that you can see in good marriages that have been tempered.

I could not fight my eavesdropping, but I successfully fought the urge to ask permission for a hug when I could whisper to each that everything will be all right. I studied a box of Stevia instead, which was infinitely more sensible, while they, in a moment of unexpected grace, brought unexpected tears to my eyes.

All of this, of course, is my mother’s fault: the twin curses she left me were compassion and the hopeless belief that we are, all of us, family.

I am my mother’s son, and, because of her, I know that I have lost sisters and brothers in Charleston that I will never have the chance to hold close—so close that we could, together, create a transformative moment when it really would be all right.

I lost family last night. I miss you all.

That lady who is now holding you close would be my Mom.