A few days ago, without any warning, first my mother walked into my house and then my brother. They tend to do this to me.

Luckily I love them both and wish they'd do it more often. They happened to be driving from where they live, a state south of me, on through my state to see my other brother who lives a state north of me. They stopped to use my bathroom--and then spent the night. Luckily mom swears I have the most comfortable couch ever and she gladly crashes on it whenever she wants.

They came late so the little kids were put to bed soon after they arrived. I can't remember the last time just we three were in a room together. I have a large family and it seems like even a small group is 5-10 people.

We sat in my living room and talked for hours. Must have awoken the sleeping kids above us with shouts of laughter at times, but I didn't care. It was so good just to be with people I love again. We told stories of the years after my dad died. My two older siblings were gone to college and it was just my brother, mom and I in the house for several years. My mom was a principal at the high school we went to and there were so many memories to share--stuff we never told mom, the principal, at the time. Then again, there was all kinds of behind the scenes stuff she could finally reveal to us. My brother and I are so close in age we grew up more like twins. It was like reconnecting with my other half; the only other person who experienced exactly what I did at almost the exact same age.

Most poignantly of all, my brother brought up the day our dad died. It was a farming accident and there are still unknowns about exactly what happened because he was alone. But, together, between the three of us, we pieced together where everyone else in the family was. That day is seared in my memory. I can recall, to the inch, where I was standing when I saw the ambulance go by, when the phone rang, every detail of the entire scene when my aunt said the words, the mud on the boots of the EMT who came to talk to us because he was just the neighbor kid who grew up in our house and he knew my dad like an uncle and it broke him up to tell us about doing CPR for the whole long drive into town because he didn't want to stop even though he knew it was too late.

But even though I can recall every detail of my experience there were holes in my knowledge of everyone else's movements. I learned, for the very first time, that it was my brother who first realized dad was missing. He was the only one who knew where dad was supposed to be when he was not. He went to get our grandpa to check on dad because he was only 14 and couldn't drive yet. I had always wondered how grandpa knew to go check on dad. Now I know.

It felt strange to learn new information about a day I've thought about hundreds of times before. I don't know how I didn't know this before. But we weren't a family of talkers back then. No therapy. No crying, even, in front of each other. The one thing we all agreed on was that our memories of the year after he died is a dark and silent house. Dark and silent years, really. Everyone protective of everyone else; all of us too vulnerable to even form words.

33 years after he died we three were back together again, just us in my dark and quiet house, talking to the wee hours of the morning. Finally saying all the things that could not be said back then. I am so glad they stopped by. A new memory of a richly treasured night.