“Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen.”

“You'll come to my grave? To tell me your problems?"My problems?"Yes.'And you'll give me answers?"I'll give you what I can. Don't I always?"I picture his grave, on the hill, overlooking the pond, some little nine foot piece of earth where they will place him, cover him with dirt, put a stone on top. Maybe in a few weeks? Maybe in a few days? I see myself sitting there alone, arms across my knees, staring into space.It won't be the same, I say, not being able to hear you talk."Ah, talk . . . "He closes his eyes and smiles."Tell you what. After I'm dead, you talk. And I'll listen.”

“Your voice will come. We all go through the same thing. You cannot talk when you first arrive."He smiled. "It helps you listen.”

“This is a story about a family and, as there is a ghost involved, you might cal it a ghost story. But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at out tables long after they have gone.”

“The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone.”

“Money is not a substitute for tenderness, and power is not a substitute for tenderness. I can tell you, as I'm sitting here dying, when you most need it, neither money nor power will give you the feeling you're looking for, no matter how much of them you have." ”

“Tell me about your family," I said. And so she did. I listened intently as my mother went through each branch of the tree. Years later, after the funeral, Maria had asked me questions about the family - who was related to whom - and I struggled. I couldn't remember. A big chunk of our history had been buried with my mother. You should never let your past disappear that way.”