The invisible lines between the various parts of my life woke up blurry today. I am far from a master at it but I’ve done this tight-rope dance before. A few days back, after a vallant attempt to combat my tendancy for winter isolation, uncomfortable thoughts and emotions started to creep up on me. I could feel it, as I had counteless times before, first in the pit of my stomach.
Emotions that could be called “vulnerable” ones, such as sadness, anxiety or fear aren’t anyone’s favorite jam. Historically for me, they have been cause for the development of an emergency escape plan. Not only did everything in me scream “run,” when I felt pain, it was most important to get away before anyone saw me in a state of what I viewed as personal weakness. It felt much safer for me to retreat to the solitude of my own darkness, often not treating myself very kindly on said-“retreat.”
In the darkness of my own thoughts and emotions, no one can see me trembling from the inside. My stomach churns, my teeth grind and my head often aches as I take cover from the thoughts that take up space in my brain:
To do lists a mile long that have not been started, adolescent sons, missing brothers, ailing loved-ones, college credits, fear of failure, hope for the future-woah, I still have not begun that to-do list.
It is not long before I have crossed so many lines in my head that I am not sure where to begin with untangling them. When I try to picture the boundaries of these lines in my mind, they represent a ball of yarn that a kitten has had free access to until nap time. By that time, I drop down into “real-life” (the present) for a moment and realize I should probably be doing something productive (full-time college while parenting is no joke) but which priority in my web of worries do I attempt to tackle?
Damn, I feel like I’ve BEEN tackled at this point. My head aches from the teeth-grinding and my stomach doesn’t know if it is hungry or needs to purge. Alas, there is no time to worry about such trivial symptoms, I am STRONG and I have that to-do list bellowing at me to stop being so…vulnerable.
I haven’t seen her in person in many years. Though we have often had the all too common, “we should get together soon” chat, it just hasn’t been in the cards. Not for a very long time. Neither of us have said it but reconnecting wouldn’t be about seeing each other’s faces. It seems like forever ago but Melissa and I met each other’s souls. I am convinced now that I am older (and hopefully, wiser) that Melissa was a real-life angel sent to me at a time in my life that I needed some saving.
I was impressed with her presence from the moment I met her. I had been introduced to Melissa through a guy dated briefly at that time. Prior to meeting her, he had sung her praises. As it turned out, she was the one thing he was right about while we dated. What a blessing she turned out to be.
As I recall this period of my life, I am struck by the fact that I cannot remember my ex’s face at all. I can, however. clearly bring up images of Melissa. Her smile was beautifully infectious, and she had beautiful, mysterious features to back it up. Melissa, who was just a bit older than I, had the same off-the-cuff wit that I had, with a true confidence that I did not. I looked up to her. The relationship that had been the reason she and I had met had begun to make me feel uncomfortable. After a while, I was smart enough to make sure Melissa was around when I went down to visit, but not yet strong enough to simply stop seeing him.
He made me nervous from the beginning. I will never forget the feeling I got the first time he and I locked eyes. The fact that I ignored this gut-feeling and moved forward despite it is in my eyes only forgiven because I was able to escape an unfavorable outcome. He was handsome, he was edgy. There were many moments this “edginess” made me uncomfortable, yet I could not name the feeling beyond that at the time.
Melissa was a great distraction. She was always glad to come over when I came down to visit and I was more eager to see her, each time. She made laugh, we had much in common but most importantly, she made me feel safe. The guy I was dating was a big dude and an even bigger personality. He liked to drink and the more liquor he consumed, the louder he got.
I have long been uncomfortable with being in the company of people
who are intoxicated. I grew up around substance abuse and I am familiar with both
the damage it can do to the person using the substances and to those around
them. In my experience, heavy use of substances can make people unpredictable.
These truths I had come to know and the confidence and self-love I had yet to
gain were a dangerous combination for me in this relationship at the time. The
louder my ex got, the drunker he got, the more submissive I became. (This may come
as a surprise to people who know me now)
Melissa was not submissive. At least in my eyes, she was brave and strong. Fierce even. Not only had she been through more than I had and survived it, she wasn’t done kicking ass and taking names. This girl showed up. Melissa began to plant the seed in my mind for what “showing up” as a woman and a friend, really means.
As I became more and more silenced by the increasing chaos around me, Melissa’s voice became more boisterous. She wasn’t afraid to speak up to the guy I dated or the guy she dated. She would yell at them to quit trying to find the bottom of the bottle, grow up and show some respect before I could even say, “wow.” I would watch in awe as she gave these grown boys what for, half expecting one of them to come at her for embarrassing their already sad state of being. They never did and I took note.
One night we all went out to see a band at a bar that was nearly an hour from my ex’s home. I could feel the iciness in the energy but took it as the nerves that often come with new experiences for me. One adult beverage was enough to take the edge off and off we went, all piled into one truck. Everyone had fun that night. Everyone except my ex.
I noticed something was wrong when we were still at the bar. He had expressed some jealously earlier in the evening and had taken it upon himself to “ice me out” for the remainder of our time out that evening. Knowing I had done nothing wrong, I assumed he would eventually get over it. On the ride back to his place, it became apparent that he was not over it. He was just getting started. Again, the tension in the air reduced me to silence.
We were dropped off back at the house and I knew I had to stay. Though I had only had two drinks, I had made it my policy to refrain from driving after even one drink. The rising tension was going to have to be cut through another way.
As soon as we got back into his house, he became visibly angry. Clearly, he had been holding onto his frustration about my imagined wrong-doings at the bar earlier. He began to raise his voice at me. At first, I tried to deescalate him by staying calm and reassuring him. This seemed to be ramp up his anger even further. Realizing new action was in order, I went into the room off the kitchen, where my belongings were. I began packing my things. He followed me into the room and began to yell even louder. Then it happened.
I turned to attempt to exit the room and he squared up to me, blocking the door. The next words out of his mouth, combined with the I-mean-you-harm expression on his face, will stay with me for as long as I live. He looked me straight in the eyes, just as he had the day we met and said, “you’re in trouble now, aren’t you?” I was cornered.
In my mind, I had only seconds to consider what this giant of a man would do to me based on the actions or words I chose next. Surely, he was expecting the polite, meek, small-town girl response he had gotten up until that very moment. That was not what happened.
“What are you gonna do?” I screamed at him loud enough to strain my throat, “fucking do it!”
To this day, I’m not sure who was more surprised. All I know is that he walked away from that exit without another word.
I walked away from that house as quietly as I had arrived. I have told almost no one about that experience. I’m not even sure Melissa knows, though we have stayed in touch over the years. None of us knew it then, but Melissa may have saved my life that day. How different would that night had turned out, had I not witnessed the courage and tenacity she had practiced with the same man? I shudder when I think about it, even now.
Today, with many years of growth and new experiences behind us, Melissa reached out to me. When I opened my messenger, I was pleasantly surprised by some photos she had sent me of us, “back in the day.” Looking at these pictures, I was instantly able to feel that warmth, that safety, I had felt being near her so many years ago.
Sweet Melissa, my angel on earth
We reminisced for a short time of days gone by. Small talk quickly gave way to the soul-searching our bond was founded on. We were both please (and I sense, a bit relieved) to share that we have both found healthy, happy relationships. Beyond that, Melissa has been able to overcome a lifelong struggle with scoliosis of the spine that has led to several surgeries, being bed-ridden at times and nearly throwing in the towel at others. Melissa has shared a great deal of her pain and suffering with me over the years but today, she had a message of gratitude to share.
At one-point bed-ridden due to crippling back pain for two years, an angel entered her life and spoke louder than any doubts she had ever allowed herself to hear. “For two years post-surgery, I was in bed. The news that I was going to be a Nana got me motivated to get up!” (Up off the Mat, you say?)
Her gratitude gushed on and I was thrilled to listen. “I was physically able to watch my two and a half year and 22-Month-old grandbabies all day last Monday! I was exhausted after but so happy that I was able!” (That’s it, girl!)
How invigorating it was to share in each other’s passions
and successes after so many years. It was at that moment that I realized that
Melissa was struggling at least as hard as I was when she was doing God’s
service as my angel here on earth. How selflessly she had given of herself at a
time when she likely needed a helping hand herself. I wonder now if she knows
what an inspiration and a beacon of hope she has been in my journey towards
becoming a woman I can live with. If you’re reading this, my friend, thanks for
keeping me from getting knocked down on the mat. Here is your soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqK8YeZYqbA
Professors sure do like to make you think. I know, that statement seems an over-simplified one. We must work our minds like a muscle to gain knowledge. It would stand to reason then, that any good instructors’ goal would be to stretch our minds to bounds they haven’t exceeded before. Recently, my already stretched to the max mind was thrown into overdrive by a seemingly simple question posed to me in a class I am taking for my Mental Health Degree. (Class name withheld, confidentiality) It was less of a question really and more of a thinking point. Our professor wanted us to start thinking about when we, personally, felt “safe” in our personal lives.
After pondering this question in my mind for several days, I began to consider that I may be over-thinking the concept. I’ve been guilty of lacking focus a time or two in my life, so I’ve learned some tricks about reigning myself back in. Researching is a skill I first learned from my mother that I have trained myself to fall back on when I am craving understanding or perspective. In this case, a search on the definition of the word “safety” seemed like a logical first step in getting on-track:
Safety: Relative freedom from danger, risk, or threat of harm, injury, or loss to personnel and/or property, whether caused deliberately or by accident. (www.businessdictionary.com)
Wait, what? Does anyone else feel like we danced around this definition a bit? Prior to reading the “official definition” of the word, I had attempted to envision what safety meant for me. My mind traveled to things that make me joyful. My first thought was of the beautiful flower gardens I had last summer. The moments our family spent soaking in the sun, taking in the different garden smells throughout the summer with the varying array of vibrant colors were my new definition of what “peace” felt like. They were our first flower gardens. We built nine of them and we were one-hundred percent hooked on gardening.
Photography by: Jen Cousins
I also knew that any moment spent in the gardens I loved so entirely were moments that potentially brought me closer than I ever wanted to be to one of my biggest fears. Snakes. In short, I do not like them. I respect their right to live and thrive, as is the case for me with all living beings. That said, I do not want to see snakes in my garden, on the television, on my Facebook feed or in a pet store. The fear a snake-sighting instills in me is one that presents itself as panic in my gut, tightness in my chest and a general terror that cannot be reasoned with.
I did have a couple of dreaded run-ins with a snake that took a liking to our gardens over the summer. It was nothing short of a miracle that the neighbors didn’t call law enforcement to report a violent attack the day Mr. Snake and I met up in the Lavender bush. Man did my foolish screaming terrify that poor thing. As it turns out, snakes move quickly AWAY from you when you scare the daylights out of them with screaming fit for a murder in progress. Last summer was the first time I was able to meet a snake on that level. They were at least as scared as I was, poor things. They can still be scared far, far away from me and my lavender. For fear of offending my english major friends, I’m going to do my best to be where the snakes ain’t.
Photograph by: Jen Cousins
I’ll likely scream loud enough for even the farthest neighbors to hear again this summer. (I really have tried to overcome this, guys,) What I know for sure is that we are looking forward to Spring time in the biggest way. We have already started to plan our gardens and I’m guessing Mr. Snake is looking forward to all that the warmer weather has to offer, too.
As I wrote about my fear of snakes, I felt my fear for them in my body. Even now, I can still feel a tightness in my chest and a slight lump in my throat. As I acknowledged my love for gardening and all the healing it brought to me in three short months, I felt a release in my heart and began to breathe easier.
Photo by: Jen Cousins
Safety is not a place, or a person or even a thing. Safety is both a state of being and is meant to be experienced in the small moments we consciously choose to acknowledge. Do we choose, in this moment, to take in the smell, the feel and the radiant colors of the garden? Or do we choose to fear the snake that may or may not appear and then disappear at any moment? Maybe in the end, the answer to the question of safety is about perspective within moments.
A little-known secret about me: my writing editor was a real hard-ass. He had a fancy job at the Bangor Daily News as a political reporter and he’s one of the only people I know who got paid to attend Harvard for a year. He knew the ins and outs of writing better than anyone I knew, so I stuck with him when it came to my own writing. But as much as he was known for his talent as a word-slinging reporter, he was known for not mincing his words.
I thought Chris Cousins cut-to-the-chase communication style may have had to do with the fact that he was my older brother, but I learned differently at his funeral in August. His boss Robert offered a hilarious account of Chris’s no-nonsense expectations for writing pieces with a fine example.
My brother was a humble guy, but he had no problem giving his boss hell when it came to what he considered to be lazy word choice in headlines. He was not shy about it, especially when it came to the word get. “Don’t ever, ever use the word get in one of my headlines,” Robert said he was known for saying repeatedly.
We all laughed, knowing how passionate my brother could be when he truly believed in something. I laughed, recalling editing sessions with him on Google Docs that may have stung my ego but served me well as a writer. For those who aren’t familiar, Google Docs has an editing program that allows more than one user to be in a document at the same time. I adored watching him in action. He would transform what I considered to be an “okay” piece into something worth publishing, in mere minutes.
These editing sessions with my brother were not for the faint of heart. My brother expected the best from me, as he knew I did from myself. In this situation, there was no time for leading questions such as, “is there a stronger word you can use here in this sentence?” He preferred the more direct approach, “change this, passive verbs piss me off!” I suppose you’d have to know him but that was the ultimate expression of love from Chris Cousins. Furthermore, the lessons resonated with me.
I would often send my brother writings with no title. I would tell him I just hadn’t thought of one yet but that wasn’t the case. I had long-since dubbed my brother “the headline king,” and nothing pleased me more than to get my writing piece back with a title suggestion from him. Never did the title he provided have the word “get” in it. Ever.
Yesterday I posted a blog. Clearly still delirious from narrowly surviving a two-week bout with the flu, I thought I had a snappy title with “Getting comfortable with the cringe-worthy.” (Hey, all of the teenagers are using the word “cringe” these days, right?)
Then it hit me. It hit me harder than any comment from my brother on Google docs had ever had. I had committed the Chris Cousins cardinal sin of headlines. Robert had the good grace to refrain from mentioning my lame, cringe-worthy title when he saw and re-posted my blog. Upon my horrifying realization that I had disappointed my brother and he was giving me the much-dreaded look of shame from above, I knew I had to act swiftly. (That disappointment is rough guys, even from the beyond)
This morning, I did something I have never done and changed the title of an already published blog. Now called Sounding off on the cringe-worthy, I can rest knowing I’ll never make that writing mistake again. Six months after his passing, we all have much to learn from Chris Cousins about life and writing. Most of us have a tendency to get lazy or impatient regarding the things we claim are important in our lives.
The truth my brother never seemed to forget is that every effort worth making at all, is worth taking your best shot at. This is true when it comes to pursuing our relationships, our passions and even those things we don’t want to do; but must. Every step we take, every word we choose to speak or write, matters more than we realize. Our every choice leaves an impression on those around us while we are living: and a legacy for those we leave behind. What choices are you making today that affect people’s lives and your legacy? Choose wisely, Big Brother is watching.
With every intention of accomplishing some meaningful tasks for the first time in more than a week, I shuffled into the kitchen. After all, every productive day starts with some nourishment for the body. That’s what I’m told people’s grandmother’s tell them, anyways. I never met either of my own grandmother’s but the advice of other people’s seems solid enough. For the record, I wash behind my ears, too.
Heading into day seven of what the doctor casually referred to as a virus (and I have begun dubbing the exorcism of viruses, though I don’t feel saved from anything yet) I was pretty sure someone’s grandma would recommend some soup. Surely this would help energize me for the day ahead. After all, it was Monday and I had a to-do list that had been forming itself in my head all weekend long.
I proceeded to fight harder than anyone should ever have to with my canned good cupboards. I was determined to locate the can of soup that was sure to save me from the last of this “virus” that I am increasingly convinced is the latest plague. By the time I found the can of soup, I was dizzy with exhaustion. As I crossed the kitchen to grab a pan to heat the soup in, I became short of breath and fell into a violent coughing spell.
The effort it had taken me to prepare someone’s grandma’s suggested can of soup had not only robbed me of my energy but had stolen my appetite as well. As I stumbled through the house in search of my inhaler (from the casual doctor who calls plagues a virus) I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Ouch.
The reflection staring back at me was humbling. My most recent coughing spell had drawn all of the color from my face. Near-constant coughing spells for the past week had been so intensely violent that they had actually split my face open in several places. Today’s coughing spell had re-opened them, causing pain I liken to being burned.
Had I, only moments before, seriously been considering completing a work shift? Suddenly I was more alarmed by how completely unaware I had become of my own state of being than I was of the clear evidence of my desperate need of some serious self-care. Neglect was written all over my face. Something had to give or it was going to be me.
It took me nearly an hour to work up the guts to let someone down. It took me that long to give up on the idea of perfection. I have adopted a persona of endless strength in the face of what are often some abnormally difficult circumstances. It wasn’t intentional, I’ve had to adapt. Unfortunately, sometimes we adapt to the detriment of our own well-being.
So I did the thing I never do. I emailed everyone but family that was expecting me this week and told them that I was out. That’s right, down on the mat. In the hour before I composed these emails, I made a list of the three things that were important priorities for me to tend to this week. The only rule while making this list was that I had to be on the list. My hope is that it is a long time, if ever, that I experience seeing a reflection in the mirror that I have neglected to the point where I am of no use to others again. If I do, I hope I am strong enough to surrender and drop the priorities from my plate that can wait for another day.
Are you guilty of self-neglect? If so, what does picking yourself Up off the Mat look like for you? Let us know in the comments section!
How do I stay positive after repeated hits from life? Throughout the past several years; or should I say, through brain surgery, the loss of my best friend of twenty years and the recent loss of my brother, many close to me have asked a similar question. Others simply make statements regarding my strength and tenacity.
You have to know, these claims about who I am are part of why I write. We all have many versions of ourselves on rotation. Some versions get shared with the world, others get kept in the more private parts of our day. We often cope with the “darker self” in solitude. I suppose different people do this for their own reasons, but it started to weigh on me when people started to view me as “the strongest person they knew.” Was I only showing the world my successes and not the challenges that deserved just as much credit for my achievements? Viewing it that way made me feel like a fraud of sorts. I didn’t want to give others who were struggling to get Up Off the Mat the wrong idea about the grit it took to get myself up again after each fall.
Just this morning I was feeling low. Weekends, when things slow down, tend to be tougher on me in the way of memories and those I miss. Also, someone I love is very ill and that has been heavy on my heart. The weight of racing thoughts became heavy and anxiety set in. I craved a good cry but the tears would not release and sat heavy in my throat instead. I thought, as I often do, of calling a friend. After three years of tragedy, talking it out seems a futile effort at times.
Instead I put on some music, which has long been of comfort to me in times of anxiety. The tune wasn’t right, I couldn’t find a Pandora station that matched what was on my heart. Frustrated, I stepped outside into the morning air for a breather.
Right away I saw him. First I noticed his rusty-red feathers, then his fire red beak. The beautiful male cardinal jumped from one branch to another while looking right at me and chirped the most beautiful sound. I said a quiet hello to him and he chirped again. I felt the weight that had been on my heart lift. Instinctively, my hand went to my heart, my gaze still following the cardinal. Love filled my heart as I silently thanked him for coming back to visit after such a long absence. I took several more deep breaths of gratitude before he flew away and I went back inside, my energy successfully changed from anxiety, to hope.
As I fixed my next cup of coffee, I remembered something a friend told me once. She told me it was impossible to feel anxiety when you were experiencing gratitude. I took that message to heart at the time and have carried it with me ever since. It is not that I am incredibly strong or an exceptionally positive person. What I have learned is that life will knock you down to the mat repeatedly and without warning. It even attempt to pin you to that mat until you are sure you are done for. A lesson that has penetrated even deeper for me is that there are countless reasons to get Up Off the Mat, and a beautiful cardinal in the morning is as good a reason as any.
Have you ever looked back, holiday celebrations behind you and gotten the feeling that the people in your life truly understand you? It could be a thoughtful gift, a sentiment shared, or quality time spent. You just know when you are with people that have taken the time to get to know you in an intricate way. They know what digs at your soul and they don’t touch it. These people also know what lights you up inside; they keep giving you more of it and you don’t even have to ask for the refill.
I, like many others, needed the above-mentioned refill often through this holiday season. The first holiday season since losing my brother had not been a void, I was looking forward to facing. I went through the motions of holiday preparations with a weight on my chest that threatened to crush me at any moment. Never one to stay down, I pressed forward. I did this in part for my son and partly because I feared the grief would “catch me” if I stopped for too long. Unsure of what the grief would do with me once it had me in its grips, I pushed forward and did my best to plan festivities sans the traditions my brother and I celebrated. Then Christmas Eve Day came.
I prepared the normal holiday treats with a heavy heart. Would anyone even show up? Maybe it was too soon yet to set myself up for possible disappointment. I carried on. I baked everything I knew how to make, my brother heavy on my heart. “He’s not coming, he’s not coming” echoed through my head. I looked up new recipes and made some of them twice, my grief-stricken brain still playing tricks on me. “He’s not coming. They may be too busy with their families to stop by.” I looked up cookie recipes I had not made before and made those, too.
One-thirty in the afternoon on Christmas Eve Day arrived and the all-day gathering was set to begin in thirty minutes. I was still preparing a cheese platter when my fiance alerted me that the first guests, long-time friends that I had not seen since the summer, had arrived. A short time later, my neighbors arrived, with a box full of food in-hand to contribute to the party.
Family and friends continued to arrive late into the evening. All brought warm smiles and hugs with them; every single one seemed to know what I needed in each moment. I caught myself looking around my home, observing all the love and celebration happening around me and I felt a deep sense of understanding and peace for the first time since I had started to dread Christmas.
Celebrating Christmas or any other day without my brother will never be okay. There will never be an event big or small that the heaviness of his loss is not felt or noticed in. What I learned about getting through my first Christmas without my only sibling is that there are things that were true when he was here that will forever remain true after losing him. My brother would never have left me or any of his loved one’s to fight this battle on earth alone. If he were here, he would stand by us all and celebrate our lives with us in the biggest way possible. Since his passing, I believe more and more that he has left us all in the best, most loving hands possible. If we are willing to get “Up Off the Mat” and reach out for these hands as we move forward in 2019, I believe we have no reason to be afraid of any challenges we may face.
I’ve never been a dates person. I forget important days, such as my mother’s birthday and the date of my father’s passing. I miss appointments more than a grown adult should and writing-related deadlines are the only ones that have ever spoken to me with any authority. More than that, I’ve long had a hard time understanding those who can remember important dates and those who attach emotions to days on the calendar. When it comes to loss, I had a hard time understanding what to me looked like scheduling a day to experience feelings of loss. I’ve lost people who were important to me and the pain didn’t seem to hit me on any day or any time of year. What I do understand is that with loss comes a wisdom and a development of empathy. This is what I found when my time on this earth was cut short with the passing of my brother. He was forty-two.
The days have gone by with a cold
swiftness that hasn’t left a lot of time for grieving in the three months since
his passing. It should be said that I haven’t wanted to set time aside to feel
what it is to be without my only sibling, my favorite person, my biggest
inspiration. Certainly, I have cried plenty of tears and even screamed at the
universe in anger more than a few times; but that is not the same as looking
ahead at a future without him. It’s not the same as letting go.
How do you let go of the person who
has stood by your side for all thirty-nine years of your life? The one who has
taught you about life, love and what a man should be? That was my brother. The
thing about a Big Brother is, even when your parents are tired of your
shenanigans and tell you to “get lost,” you’ve still got your big brother to find
your way again with. He never let me down on that front or on any other. My
brother was the rarest of big brothers, he wanted me around. I never knew that
wasn’t the norm until I got older. I never knew just how fortunate I was.
As we enter our first holiday season without him, I have found that the 25th of December hollers at me from the calander; its tone more harsh each day it draws closer. Memories from nearly four decades of holidays spent together play in my head like a movie that I’ll never catch the ending of. For the first time since I said goodbye to him, I have no choice but to look forward and try to picture each Holiday without him here. Now I’m starting to get the significance of dates. I understand this so deeply, I’ve been writing him a letter in my head for weeks. A holiday letter, if you will:
Dear Big
Brother,
The Holiday season is coming again. I
know it can be a stressful time for you. I worry about how you worry, and you
worry about how I worry, so we’ll call each other several times a day until we
get through it, okay? I’m going Christmas shopping on Saturday. I know you’re
busy but keep your phone on you okay? One of the things I love best about this
time of year is that we can get away with calling each other so often, with
holiday prep as our excuse. Really, I know we both miss dad and we need the
extra laughs. Thanks for thinking of that, and thanks for taking my calls. By
the way, who’s getting mom the gag-gift of ribbon candy this year? It’s become
tradition at this point and you never forget it-though you always say it’s from
both of us. Mom will unwrap it and we’ll laugh and laugh. She’ll insist that
she loves it and the box of gifted ribbon candy will collect dust all year.
Hey, remember that year when we were
kids and mom asked for a robe for Christmas? You made it our mission to find
the ugliest robe we could, and we succeeded admirably. Remember how we laughed
and laughed as we wrapped this huge terrycloth robe, covered in purple hearts? Poor
mom wore that hideous thing for years. She claimed to love it as much as the
ribbon candy, but the ugly robe never collected any dust.
Remember how I was always the first one
awake on Christmas morning? I would wake before daylight, just after mom and
dad had finally gone to bed. Mom and dad would always tell me to go back to sleep
and wait for my brother to wake up. By the time you were a pre-teen, I had to
get creative with waking you, as I was too excited to wait! Remember that year
I put my porcelain piggy-bank near your pillow and dropped coins in it until it
finally woke you? You weren’t impressed then, but we found the humor in that
rude awakening for years to come.
I think we lost count of how many times
the family dogs knocked down our Christmas tree but eventually we got smart and
started hanging it from the ceiling. In later years we would offer this up as
advice for other’s and they’d look at us like we were crazy. But that was
Christmas in our house.
Hey Bro, do we have everything we need
for our annual Christmas morning crepe breakfast? You have mom’s recipe, right?
I’ll be there in the morning and we’ll start cooking. You flip em’ and I’ll
fill em’, right? I already picked up the Rum for the rum-nogs, anytime after
noon is cool to start on those, right?
Wow Bro, I bet you can’t wait to tell
mom how great her “chicken” is for Thanksgiving dinner. I can see the scene
now, all of us twenty years younger. She would slave over a Turkey dinner all
day and present it to us. We would tell her how great the chicken was, and she
would respond through gritted teeth, “It’s not chicken!!” We never could take
her anger seriously and she never could stay mad at us. She also never seemed
to catch onto the fact that we in fact knew what bird she had prepared. We just
enjoyed the reaction. Secretly, I think she did too.
Remember that Christmas Eve we spent in
Woolwich? You, Jen and I stayed up all night long while you assembled Lucas’s
new toy kitchen. It had approximately one billion individual pieces as I
recall, all fused together in plastic rings. It took hours beyond what you
expected to complete it. Lots of dads would have gotten frustrated. Some may
have even quit and completed it another day. Not you, Big Brother. You joked
your way through it, keeping us laughing with you until your son had an
assembled kitchen set to wake up to on Christmas morning.
I bought all the ingredients for your
favorite pie today. You know, the ones you ask me if I’m making every year
because they are your favorite? One blueberry pie and one apple-triple berry.
I’d never forget your pie, Big Brother. I love all parts of Thanksgiving Day,
but nothing beats seeing you come through the door full of Thanksgiving dinner
but craving my homemade pie. I’d never forget to make you that pie, Big
Brother.
I could write an almanac of holiday memories with my brother in them. A series on the ways he touched my life on days that didn’t seem significant at the time. Insignificant because he was my big brother and he had been there on days that were important and days that were ordinary for my entire life.
Maybe it’s because holidays
themselves tend to stand out in our memories. Maybe it’s because to me, my
brother was a real-life savior; a true holiday miracle during what were not
always easy times growing up. Maybe it’s because I am convinced that his life
here on this earth held true spiritual meaning. I know he played the role of a
saint in my life. Maybe it’s just because he’s my brother and I miss him but
with Thanksgiving passed and Christmas fast-approaching, I understand the
weight that a date on a calendar can hold. It’s not about “scheduling a day to
be sad.” Facing the holidays without your loved one is like revisiting every
season you’ve ever celebrated while being slapped with the reality that you
will never celebrate with them again. To those of you reading who can relate,
may you find peace and much love this holiday season. To my Big Brother, here
is your soundtrack: https://youtu.be/eciUuLE7ehc
Up Off the Mat 