The middle sister of our family, Kathy, surprised me the other day, telling me that with Mom, in her Alzheimer's condition, that, now, I was the Matriarch of the family. Standing in her kitchen, wearing my choice of ti-dye, drinking coffee. I raised my eyebrows and had fleeting thought's of "The Godfather," recalled my childlessness quite vividly, raised and eyebrow,and uttered the ususal "Whatever," standard answer that I routinely give to Kathy in order to avoid disagreements.

"Now, I'm serious, Cher, You have to get your shit together, people will be coming to you for answers."

I didn't think so, and what planet was she coming from anyway? And why? And what did she even mean-Matriarch? We don't live on estates, have money, we don't even have regular family meetings...so, whatever, indeed?

Why would people come to me? I am an old Deadhead with a well, colorful reputation. I was married once, it ended in disaster, but it was decades ago. I never had kids. I have lived with Bubba for almost 15 years, but he hesitant to make it legal, and I love him so much and he is so good to me, I let it ride...who would come to me for advice?

I still do not know what Kathy meant.

She has two grown children. Tina is happily married with pre-teen twin sons, and an adorable, precocious 6 yr old girl. Kathy's son, Dustin, travels the world on business for Eli Lilly, and is ultra active in politics and volunteering.

I still do not know what Kathy meant.

She suffers from Fibromyalgia. There is no cure. She will have it for the rest of her life. For almost every day for the rest of her life, she will feel pretty lousy, pretty much like she has the flu. Some days will not be as bad as others, but every day will be a challenge. She is a Tarus, head strong, always in control, headstrong to get her way, always in the driver's seat. She has been this way all of her life. A lot of people come to Kathy for advice.

I shudder to think I might know what Kathy meant.

It was a long, tragic road we traveled when we lost our dad. Sweet Daddy. It was rough, and he was stubborn, and he really did not mean to, but he made it a lot tougher on us than he had to do. Almost 80, and chasing that Scotch bottle around...he knew that he was on heart medication and not supposed to drink, but chose to chance it, as to him, it was the quality of life at that age that mattered, and Old Smuggler's tasted like real quality after the first couple of shots.

So, he fell, hit his head, spent the night in the hospital and checked out to my care the next day. And as he was a musician, playing Hammond Organ, & I took care of him that day, he first played for a lady's funeral. Then. he played at the Knight's of Columbus (for it was his favorite drinking holiday-St. Patrick's Day), then, to top the evening off, the big party was at the Cozy Lounge. It was horrible. Cold, hard rain. His wife in a wheelchair, Dad insisting "The show must go on!" and "I've never missed a gig in my life before!" Family was with him in shifts, begging him to stop, and go home and stubborn old man kept on insisting he was fine, playing the tunes, like he wanted to die in the saddle, but in the saddle for Daddy would be sitting at the Hammond organ, playing it with one hand, the adjacent piano, with the other hand, singing some New Orleans or Big Band number, which is what he must've been trying to do, but he didn't die, he just stroked out, and lingered for a bitter two years during which we kids had some misunderstandings, some disagreements, some total lack of communication.

The blame game gets no one anywhere. Everyone did the best that they could do at the time under the circumstances. Nobody wanted harm to come to Daddy...out of stupidity or neglect. One may say, if I had been there things would have been done differently-but you (& I) were not there...we cannot know that it would have gone differently and we could have saved him, we can't know that...Daddy fought everyone's advice and good intentions all that day and night...he fought me from the first moment I saw him in his hospital room that morning... I begged him to go home after a night in the hospital...he would not hear of it. He had obligations. He "needed this money...had a reputation to protect." He was a sweet, stubborn old man who always got his way when it came to his music.

The anger between siblings has gone on for years, before, and after his passing. Speaking. Not speaking. Forgiven. Not.

I have cried over this, all over my house, my back yard, and while driving, especially these last two months. I have been crying over so many things, my sibling's rift, primary among them. I am working on getting my "shit together." I cried a great lot Friday, and quite suddenly, tired of crying. I had an idea and I wanted to be in control.

I walked quickly into the house & dashed off an email.

The next day, another email mid-morning. A phone call in the afternoon. I tried to exert some control. I asked my siblings to heal this family. Dad would want us to do this. I want us to do this. I do not know if it will work I only know it felt like something that the matriarch of the family ought to do, instead of crying.

I wonder if this is what Kathy meant, and I wonder if it worked?