No siblings. A trio: Mom. Dad. Me. That’s it.

But not really.

Our tiny nuclear family didn’t feel tiny because my mom and dad had lots of siblings. Growing up with an uncle six years older and an aunt nine years older than me felt like I had siblings – one’s that didn’t live in my space. It was the best of both worlds in my mind. I had the run of my house and the doting of aunts and uncles. Loneliness existed but was just a flight of stairs away from being abated. I long for those days.

Those days of a close knit community of people who look like me. the ones who developed a me who will never depart.

I live a thousand miles away from those oompa loompas and carry fond memories of the celebrations and struggles that we call family life.

My tiny family grew to include a son. A son I had for thirty-three years, but last year my tiny family shrunk. My father first walked to the pearly gates, and my only child parachuted to the sky a short, few months later. Decimated.

It’s just my mom and I now. We are separated by half a continent, but we hand onto each other in a way like never before – a swimmer and buoy – a blessing for the other.

I’ve changed a lot in the last year; death can do that. Mortality exists in my mind in a way it never had before, but cherished memories live on. Videos have a place that can now not be replaced. Photos works of art. Lives created exist each day and each exist forever in the mind. Meaningfulness has changed. I am changed.

What has changed you?