The River House

This year, for my older brother Jesse’s birthday celebration, we went to Martindale, Texas where Jesse and his wife Amanda are fixing up an ethereal  property that overlooks the San Marcos River. We were sitting in the living room of the main house after a day of swimming, sun, and cheesecake. All four of the kids, my seven month old included, were playing with toys under the watchful eyes of eight loving adults. Exhausted from caring for my energetic baby with a strained lumbar, I lay back on the couch, my eyelids sinking. Amanda resettled me for a nap on my nephews’ bunk bed. I felt completely held as my body melted into the sun-soaked bottom bunk. I relaxed into the deepest sleep I’ve experienced since giving birth.

To me, this river house symbolizes a changing of the guard. My parents, in their 70s, have stepped back as my brothers and I take up the mantle of organizing family gatherings. I grieve my parents’ mortality. Besides the obvious loss, they were the engine for connection throughout our youth. They happily hosted massive sleepovers in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, opened the doors of our Austin home to our friends, the neighbor kids, and their dogs, and drove us to Memphis, Michigan, and Port Aransas on vacations in a massive Suburban. Jesse and Amanda’s river nest with its many bedrooms, two casitas, pool, and hot tub is — at its heart — a gathering place. It represents a commitment to connecting for years to come. It reassures me that my brothers and I — and the families we have formed — will continue the legacy of togetherness when my parents are gone.