dance at bougival

Dearest Mama,

Last night, as I was preparing to leave the Christmas Eve festivities at the house you and Frank shared, my younger stepsister asked me to stay a bit because she had something she wanted to give me. So I did, finding it an odd request, but willing to keep an open mind.
So, most of the family has gone and I've moved things out to my car. Your first granddaughter and her husband are still there, as is her mother. I'm not sure just who else might have been there at this point. I was going to put the blue casserole dish into my car, but that's when I was called over to the living room and time just seemed to s l o w d o w n. I had walked from the kitchen into the dining room area and saw that there was a blank place on the wall between the dining and living rooms, a place which had held a painting you had loved.
After you died, my stepdad had asked if there was anything of yours which I might want. I immediately replied that I wanted the Renoir print of "Dance at Bougival". With a serious look, he said he liked that painting very much, too, then he told me, "Okay, you can have it when I die." I had smiled and said, "Well, fine, that means I'll never get it! You're gonna outlive all of us!"
Every time I came to see him and we sat there in the living room to chat, I would remind him that I still wanted "the dancers" and he would grin and tell me I would have to wait until he died. "Fine," I would say, "that means I'll never get it and will have to just visit it here." Then we would both laugh and talk of other things.
I truly did think he would outlive all of us. He just seemed to be indomitable, going strong regardless of having had COPD for almost twenty years and neuropathy in his legs for almost as long.
Apparently, I was mistaken and a simple task - doing laundry - led to a fall which led to his death. Honestly, I think I am still in a state of disbelief about that.
Back to the story I was telling you (as if you didn't already know!). So, my stepsister is standing in the living room and I realize, as I look at her, that she is supporting a painting. And I look up at the wall and see the blank spot where YOUR painting should be. And time s l o w s d o w n as I realize what is happening. She tells me that she knows her dad intended me to have this painting, this Renoir beloved by my mother, and she and her siblings want me to have it. And I start crying. I am finally getting the painting I have waited to own since 2001 and all I can truly appreciate is this fact: Frank is dead, he is truly gone, and here we are having a last Christmas Eve family event at his house and he is dead.
I'm going to have to write them a very nice thank-you note for giving me the painting. I'm going to have to get someone to help me hang it in my living room, in a space I've held reserved just for that particular piece of art, in a space where I can admire it often and feel not only your presence but also his.
But now, I'm going to go to bed and sleep and let my tears again flow.
How bittersweet to finally receive this gift.

with much love always...