The whole family gathers at her house most Sundays afternoon - her children and their spouses, her grandchildren, some cousins, and sometimes even a neighbor or two.
We - Julien, Angèle, the kids, and I - come from church a couple blocks away. One of the uncles and a few of the kids are out in the courtyard when we arrive. We exchange greetings.
The smell of food wafts out from the kitchen where Rosa, the youngest aunt, is overseeing the noon meal preparations. Today it's mafé, which makes me immensely happy. I could eat that every week and not get tired of it.
We greet the family in the sitting area - a kind of inside courtyard - before going into the living room to greet Angèle's grandma.
She's sitting in her usual spot, on the couch facing the TV.
The years have etched their lines in her face, and somewhere in her dark eyes, you can read a tale of loss. She's buried a husband, at least one sister, and now a daughter. Life has dealt her a hard hand, but she never gives the slightest indication of bitterness. She seems instead a mixture of resignation, grief, and silent stability.
I lean down and kiss her on each cheek, asking how her health is.
She pats the couch next to her, wanting me to sit there, at least for a little bit. She asks me how I'm doing, if the weather is too hot for me, if I hear any news from my family in California.
Her voice is low, kind. It's normal to ask about someone's health, their family, their news. But with her, I know it's more than mere politeness. She cares.
I look over at Grand-mère and realize how wonderful it is that she's taken me in. How this whole family has taken me in and loved me and given me the gift of belonging.
It's beautiful. Just like that face framed by the starched white scarf and lined with age.
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