Words for a Birthday

I quickly grabbed a birthday card for my brother, Brent, on the way to our aunt’s funeral. She was my father’s sister, and her passing left him as the lone survivor of their immediate family.  Feeling bad that Brent’s birthday was on the same day as this very sad occasion, I sought for something meaningful to write that would remove the somber note of the day.  

I sat in my car, pen poised above paper, sifting through possible sentiments.  With only twenty-one months difference in our age, we’ve always been fairly close, but over the years our families and careers took the majority of our time. Physical distance was also a factor that made spending time together a challenge.

Something changed in our relationship, though, after my dad’s stroke two years ago.  In the weeks and months that followed that frightening event, Brent began calling me regularly to make sure I was kept informed of what was going on with our dad.  Because he lives closer to our parents, he was able to stop by frequently or help with getting them to the many appointments Daddy had.  Later, when the rash of doctor’s visits and rehab sessions had ceased and the adjustment to their new normal had taken place there was no need for him to update me as often, but the calls continued.  Sometimes with news, sometimes just to “shoot the breeze”.  My favorite is when the calls begin with “Have you talked to your parents today” which is usually followed by giggling and shaking our heads at things they have done as though they are children who’ve gotten into mischief.

Through these calls, we’ve regained a closeness that had dulled over the years. The crack wrought in our perfect world by our dad’s health event reminded us to cherish the time that we have with one another and brought near the reality that time is doled out in a limited measure.

An image of Brent comes to mind as I search for the right words to put down on the card.  One I’ve revisited many times over the last year.  Months after Daddy’s stroke, we attended a funeral service for his nephew who had passed away after a long battle with illness.  The service was over, and I was standing at the back of the church talking with some cousins I hadn’t seen in a while. Funny how funerals often become unintended family reunions. I scanned the room trying to spot my husband.  What I saw instead was Daddy standing at the end of one of the pews crying. Brent reached over and pulled him into an embrace then gently bent to kiss the top of his head as tears streamed down his own face. I found it hard to swallow past the lump that rose in my throat. The changed dynamic of our family defined by a single moment.

I observe this middle-aged man, my little brother, and it dawns on me, perhaps for the first time, that he’s no longer the wide-open kid of our childhood. Gone is the boy who split his head open just above his eye with a hammer trying to remove a nail from a tree by placing both feet squarely on the tree and pulling the hammer back with all his might.

That careless boy, the baby of the family, is now the caretaker of our parents entrusted with making decisions and repairing lawn tools. A sensitive soul who wears his love close to the surface tearing up over song lyrics or when saying the pre-meal blessing. A nurturer as deliberate in his role as guarantor of our parent’s well-being as he is the role of father to his four children.

Being the oldest, I got married and moved away when he was still a lanky kid. It seems now as though I wasn’t paying attention to his metamorphosis into a responsible adult. Like I didn’t see him because I was too busy looking at myself. I feel a pang of regret. Did I miss the opportunity to really know him during all those years we shared together under the same roof?

Closing my eyes, I reach back past the regret. Memories from long ago begin to rise to the surface. Riding bikes, building forts, hanging on Frankenstein’s legs (aka Daddy) to keep him from “attacking” Mama, swimming in the pond. I’m told that from the beginning I declared him “my baby” pulling him into my lap to rock him even though he was as big as I was.

I think again of the solemn occasion of this day.  My father had lost his sister, but Brent and I still have each other, and I realize there’s still time. Time to laugh and cry. To make more memories. To know one another.

On the card, I pen the words that spill out of a thankful heart. “Aren’t we blessed to love each other?”

Brent and I circa 1970