I’ve never met you… but I love you

 

Today, I found out I had another older brother. He died before I was born, before he could argue with me, before he could tell me to “get out” or “don’t look under there.” Before he could teach me to drive stick, or throw a ball, or hold my hand when our other brother was hit by a motorcycle.

In the month I turn 31, I’m thinking about my brother who would be 45. I’m wondering if one grows in heaven. If older brother is 45 or if he is still 8 months old?

Is he waiting for his umbilical cord to fall off? Someone to brush out his cradle cap?  Or was he hovering over me cackling at naïve decisions regarding boyfriends, clothing choice, and a strange addition to Marvin the Martian?

Was he there, when my children were being born? Waiting to catch them in case they fell into the arms of the other universe instead of the doctor?

What’s my other brother’s name?

I have many friends who have suffered from losing their children. I have seen names drawn in sand, balloons raised in honor. I have seen holes the shape of tiny feet in the hearts of many mothers.

Loss.

I only knew that my mother had experienced loss. I never truly listened to the story. I never heard my other older brother.

My mother is one of those women you meet and strength exudes from her. When angry, her green eyes bulge just slightly out of her sockets but mostly, the grassy hue softens in kindness. She is selfless in the way she provides for her grandchildren.

You’d never imagine my mother experienced her first child fall out of her, still. You’d never imagine she fainted, was wrapped in a blanket, and was driven to the ambulance in a police car. You’d never imagine the financial strife or the husbands, the terrible husbands.

She calls her grandchildren and showers them in love and Minnie Mouse paraphernalia. She stands as a woman with fear behind her and love in front of her.

My other older brother would be proud- no matter his age.

I sit thinking about the family we would have been, when my first brother has been part of us all along. He created my mother’s strength. She leads her life with his tiny foot prints stamped into her heart. She loves us with a love that began with him.

So, he was there holding my hand. He was laughing with me as I backed into a tree. He was with my older brother during every accident. The family we are, no matter how jumbled or rollercoaster ride it may feel, is ours. May we always learn and acknowledge every step that got us here, every obstacle our parents tackled restlessly- and exude gratitude.  

About Nothing and Everything (A Letter)

Sitting at my old writing spot in the local coffee shop, I had the need to talk to a blank page... to talk to you. I haven't written in a year and while I can list the moments of elation and depletion that have filled those days, I will not. Well, I will but not on purpose.

This time, last year, Rylee was 9 months. She was standing on her own. She was learning how to use her limbs. We were house hunting and picking up coins from dirtied floors. These coins would later pay for a fresh coat of paint on our constantly in renovation home.

I won't promise that I'll write more frequently. Chances are, you will forget me to the light that fills you...but on occasion..when the light is right, the quiet around me is actual quiet, I will talk to you. I will tell you how the beauty of silence is just as the beauty you always searched for. The one that was half reflective and half liquid.

What I wish for you is that no matter how little I write you, Father, that you hear me. That you take a moment to notice how Rylee's cheeks are yours. Even though she will never know you, she will be taking on the planet with some of your influence.

Will you still watch, when the newest girl arrives? She will also need the beam of your lighthouse. That ever revolving light that fills a Werner with a broken compass. The directions of others, does not have to be the direction of thyself. Right?

When I hand my daughters your letters, I hope they are inspired to write.

Will you teach them that written words are potent? The pages stained with the scent of the hand that glided across on a whim of self revelation, of love, of the need to talk.

The worst time in my life was when I realized I would no longer receive postcards from you. The mailbox was exactly how my mother saw it- a reminder of all the responsibilities you can't take control of. The flying whale no longer swam on your page and into the dusty basement apartment.

These are the things I will remember. No matter how dry the oceans get, time does not nourish grief into a tolerable being. Time just cloaks her into a saddened seed. One that will grow when you are in just the right place. One that will thorn its way into your space.

That's when I call for lighthouses.

Someday, I will get that tattoo. Someday, I will tell my daughters how you sailed the oceans before Fedex, UPS, and Google took over the world. I will tell them how you took to a guitar like the ocean took to you. How your voice was just the right amount of raspy. How waves were bigger than boats, and hearts were not symbols of love but symbols of friendship.

You may not have always been a father, but you were always a friend.

And I am grateful for that.

That's about all I can find in my quiet today.

Let the light emerge,
A