Family. What an interesting subject – a “touchy” subject for some. For more and more people, I think, as time goes by.

I’ve learned that death(s) in the family can illuminate or cast a shadow on “true” family members: who is there for you and who is not. Divorces tend to dictate who family “really is” as well: who is blood and who isn’t (although, it seems like divorce is similar to death. Only, no one stops breathing).

When I consider my (living) family, it is pretty simple (and limited): my mother and a few choice aunts, uncles and cousins, many of who are not blood relation.

But always during these moments of reflection (and envy of other peoples tight knit “true” and “real” (living) families), there has never been a doubt in my mind that my father’s Tante Therese, Oncle Gerard, their children, and their children’s children in France are and will always be family.

It has been eight years since my last visit to Marspiche – a small French town about 20 minutes from Luxembourg and 45 from Germany. My mother, father, cousin Julie and I returned home from our 2001 visit about three weeks before 9/11 and six weeks before my dad discovered the marble-size lump in his neck.

On this month-long voyage, the four of us drove through the Swiss Alps, Germany, Paris and France. We stayed with Tante Therese et Oncle Gerard for about two weeks.

At the time, there were three “Gerards” in the family: my father’s uncle (currently 79 years old), my father, who was technically born Gerard but everyone dubbed “Jerry” (who would be 57), and Uncle Gerard’s son’s (Regis) son “petit Gerard” (17).

Like every visit, there was one big family dinner where my mother made Buffalo-style chicken wings (mom and dad always “smuggled” Frank’s Red hot sauce in their carry-on for the occasion).

After dinner and wine, baguettes and assorted cheeses, champagne and candid family photos, Tante Therese asked the three Gerards (all of whom were eight years younger at the time) to pose together for a picture.

Because my uncle and father had consumed many glasses of various alcohols by this point, this was not the easiest task; especially considering the language barrier.

“Smile Jerry,” my mother playfully nagged my father after a few minutes of goofing around.

“Ah, pauvre (poor) Jerry,” Uncle Gerard said, suggesting that my father had a difficult life because of my mother. Tante Therese began speaking in a bird-like French dialect at my uncle. I assumed she was nagging him as well. (The two of them usually spoke to each other in this tone).

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Pauvre, pauvre Jerrys,” he sighed pointing to my father and himself.

We all laughed. The photo was taken. More champagne was swallowed. Salute!

This moment washed over me in a wistful wave when I entered my aunt and uncle’s house last Thursday. Because I was already emotionally revved from the past four days worth of traveling problems, I went to bed early and, with the help of NyQuil, slept 12 hours.

(In my experience, to sleep is to heal. To sleep heavily is to forget.)

The following day we ate le diner (“dinner,” or the large meal of the day, which is actually consumed around 1 p.m. in France whereas “lunch,” or the smaller meal is eaten around 7 p.m.) at Regis’ house: tomatoes marinated in balsamic dressing, salmon fettuccini alfredo, salad, baguettes with cheese, and rhubarb pie.

And as always, beaucoup de vin et champagne.

Also as always, my uncle and aunt bickered back and forth throughout most of the meal.

“Pauvre Gerard,” Tante Therese finally said to him mockingly and laughed. Oncle Gerard sighed, “Oui, pauvre Gerard.”

He paused, and looked up at me, “Pauvre, pauvre Jerry.”

My uncle and I do not speak the same language in many instances: dialect, culture, age and subsequent life experiences. But looking at him from across the table – into his watery wine-hazed eyes and at his lopsided smile that contained nostalgic humor, sadness, regret, and sympathy – I felt for the first time that we understood each other.

The following morning, Tante Therese and I sat on her balcony. Because they live on a hill, the view overlooks all of Marspiche. We ate cherries picked from tree branches that droop over part of the terrace and bathed in the sun.

She began retelling me the story of her parents and life during the war; of religion and fear, disappointment and arranged marriages; of death.

“Are you afraid to die?” I heard myself asking her the same question I had asked my father weeks before he passed away in 2007 due to the after effects of that marble-sized lump.

“Ah no. What means it to me? I don’t feel. When I die, I just ‘poof’ [disappear],” she said clapping her paper-thin hands together. She continued in a thick, broken French accent, “Death scares the alive family. That is why they hurt. Fear is the hurt. But even so, after death … we all family still. We never are not family. You understand?”

I smiled at her, “Oui.” I understood.

Originally Published Sunday, June 21, 2009