A Hand to Hold.docVIP

A Hand to Hold I remember hearing about the Willis girls just before my fathers 80th birthday party. Relatives and friends were coming from thousands of miles away to Spur, Texas, a town of 1300. Among those expected were the Willis girls--four sisters, all in their 70s. They had grown up around Spur but had been gone for a long time. I wasnt sure why my dad was so happy to hear they were coming--or so disappointed when they changed their minds. Two years after my fathers big party, my mother died. Theyd been together 53 years. All through her illness--for almost two months--he stayed with her in the hospital, often 24 hours a day. 　　A few days after the funeral, my dad and I played golf on Spurs hard-scrabble course. On the ninth tee, he surveyed the landscape: scrawny mesquite trees, dying grass, sand and a tick-ridden jack rabbit. 　　Its a pretty, old world, he said. 　　It was one of the bravest statements Id ever heard. My dad knew that he had a lot of trials ahead of him--loneliness, an aging body--but it was still a pretty, old world. 　　Worried about him being alone, I called him once a day after I returned home to New York. Occasionally he mentioned one of the Willis girls--Gussie Lee--who now lived in Sacramento, Calif. Shed lost her husband, and she and my father, Clyde, had begun to talk on the phone. Their discussions would end with Clyde pressing her to visit. Someday, shed reply. 　　It was almost two years before Gussie came back to Spur. Clyde met the flight and studied the passengers with growing disappointment. She wasnt on the plane. She hadnt come. Then she marched right up to him and demanded, Are you Clyde Latham? 　　Startled and suddenly smiling, he admitted: Why, yes, I am. 　　They headed for baggage claim. Im sorry I didnt recognize you, he said. 　　You werent looking for a little old lady, said Gussie. 　　Thats the problem. I was looking for a little old lady. When none got off the plane, I was stumped. 　　Liar. 　　Cross my old heart. 　　They collected