Family continues on

            My Brother #1 texted me. “Can Cathy come out to play?” Only he would be able to make me chuckle over a remark like that. Brother #1 has always been a Goodtime Charlie.

            I didn’t get that message right away. When I found it and texted back, “Hahahahahahahaha!” he asked why it was funny. Well, he was back home sitting on his front porch. Earlier he and his daughter were riding their bikes and were at my front door—which we NEVER use. Either I was in the kitchen putting groceries away or I hadn’t arrived home yet. He told me they might come around again later. And they did.

            We sat at the table on the patio. It used to be Mom’s glass top table. I brought it to my house. Eventually we got around to talking about Mom.

            “It’s hard to believe it was two years, five months and five days between when Dad died and when Mom passed away,” he said. “And in the same hour of the night!” He said he still hasn’t been up to her grave. He didn’t say why. I didn’t ask. It hasn’t been quite 10 months since Mom died. I know everyone grieves differently, takes different lengths of time. So, I don’t want to intrude on his feelings as he comes to grips with Mom’s passing. I guess I just want him to know he’s not alone. None of us who loved “Honey” is alone.

            I said, “Derf said as long as I’m alive Dad will never be dead,” I said.

            Brother #1 looked at me, appearing pretty doubtful about that. “No, you look like Mom. You act like Mom. As long as you are alive, Mom will never be dead. The older you get, the more like her you look!”

            That’s what my children said. Then another thought occurred to me and I nearly cried.

            “Does that upset anyone? That I look so much like Mom? Does it hurt everyone?” When I look in the mirror I often see Mom’s face looking back at me.

            “No,” Brother #1 answered. “It doesn’t.”

            We are our parents’ children, products of their union. Half of our genes come from our dad and half from our mom. And sometimes I say, “I hope I got Mom’s smart genes, but not her Alzheimer’s genes, and I hope I have Dad’s sharp brain to the end genes but not his chronic lung disease genes. I hope I got the best of both of them.” Well, I hope my brothers got the best, too. Brother #1 is two years younger than me. Brother #2 is seven-and-a-half years younger than me. Brother #2 said to me a number of years ago, “You have to live to 107-1/2 so you can attend my 100^th birthday party. Then we can die together.” That will be January 1, 2061. I don’t know why he even thought of it, but it meant a lot to me that he said it. It still does.

            I remember when Brother #2 was born. Dad came to Aunt Mary’s to get Brother #1 and me and bring us home. I saw that beautiful baby sleeping on a receiving blanket spread over the sofa. I claimed him immediately. I was 7-1/2 years old, a grown-up little person.

            I didn’t grow up with sisters. I always was protective of my brothers until Mom told me I needed to step back and not put my brothers in a position where they had to choose between their sister and their love interests, later their wives.

            It’s true. When we grow up we are still brothers and sisters, but we must respect our siblings and step out of their business. If they need our help, our siblings will ask for it.

            We’re older now. In two years, five months and five days, at the same wee hour, we lost both of our parents. Now there are the three of us and our families, and we strive to maintain the close ties, the close family ties, Mom inspired. Mom…the hummingbird.

(c) 2012 Cathy Thomas Brownfield


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