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On a recent flight to San Diego to visit my Aunt Janice, I had three hours to ponder civility (which is approximately two hours too long). Do people care for others less once they enter the liminal space that is actual space?
The unbridled coughing from the person behind me was spectacular, and not in a good way. And, of course, there is the question of our divided country, of our recent election, of our torn allegiances with our neighbors, families and fellow Americans. How do we come together now? How do we cross a seemingly endless bridge?
On this plane ride, I felt for my fellow passenger, who seemed quite sick. But I also didn’t want to bring this illness to my aging aunt, who has enough problems. The woman did not cover her cough. At a minimum, I want people to at least pretend to care about other people.
My husband, Cedar, and I had accepted my aunt’s invitation to visit as a break from caregiving (our daughter’s disabilities require around-the-clock support). We were tired — exhausted — and Janice generously offered to put us up in a hotel while our kids were well cared for at home.
A few mornings after we arrived, Cedar and I sat with Aunt Janice while the California sun streamed over our faces. The conversation veered to our oldest child’s fondness for a well-worn bear. Janice, who is 80 years old, exclaimed, “A love for stuffed animals?! That’s from me!” As if such a thing is genetically coded. But then again, who am I to say that it’s not in our DNA, or that it is not a miracle, that both of them have stuffies with similar places in their hearts? Why can’t it be, as Janice often says, “signs and wonders, ordained by God?”
The next evening, at a Mexican restaurant, the room was roaring, and that was before the mariachi band. Janice recited a prayer over our dinner, as she often does. Janice was raised Jewish, like me, and later settled on Catholicism.