My mom had three brothers and three sisters. Her parents were both born in Ireland and met in Chicago. Her dad was a plumber; he had his own business, but lost it during the Depression. Her two older brothers were killed six months apart in WWII. It hit the family hard, her dad in particular; he railed against Roosevelt.

My mom is the last surviving member of her family. She often dreams of her dad, thinking he's here with her. She wakes crying and asks me if he is still alive. It's happened several times now. Each time I tell her she's 86, and that would make him impossibly old.

He died sixty years ago.