In Remembrance

I wish I could share this 30’s thing with him. He’d be 33 on February 7^th. He shares his birthday with Garth Brooks. 

I could commiserate with him over all the little things that seem to be breaking down in my body, complain about how sometimes life just isn’t fair, and talk to him about our parents. He would worry with me over the things that I worry about. He would celebrate my accomplishments with me. I would love to know what he would have accomplished with his life to this point. Would he be married? Would I have a sister-in-law? A woman who would love him, take care of him, argue with him and keep him in line? Would he have children? How many and what would their names be? He died in 2001, age 22. 

When we were kids, we made a pact: we would never let anything come between us, we’d always be friends. We saw our mother angry with our uncles about something. We had no idea why, only that they weren’t getting along at the time, and we promised each other we would never be like that. We were each other’s first best friend.

We shared everything, up to and including our birthday parties. Our birthdays were only 8 days apart and only 2 years separated us, so I don’t remember a single time when he wasn’t there for my birthday. I don’t think I ever missed his either. Until 2002. That birthday was hard. It was the first birthday without him. It was the first time I truly felt like an only child. I was lost. He was my anchor. I could face any number of birthdays, and grow old gracefully, as long as I was watching him age right along with me. 

I’ll be 35 on February 15^th. While I worry about things like varicose veins, adult acne, stretch marks, and wrinkles, his body is whole and perfect. He has no aches and pains. He isn’t aging.

I remember how we used to compare things about ourselves. His hands were like mine, only more masculine, with square nails. His nose was bigger, but not huge. It was my grandpa’s nose. The Maberry genes run strong in our family, and my oldest son has that same nose now. We both had curly hair. I think back to when I was in Cosmetology school, and he’d let me cut his hair for practice. He was a teenager, and grew little curls out in the back, just at the bottom edge of his hairline, and the girls he dated all loved to run their fingers through it. My youngest son has hair just like his. 

I see these reminders of him every day, and I wonder how on earth can it be that he isn’t here? He’s been gone almost 10 and a half years. TEN YEARS. But ten years isn’t so long, when I look at the life ahead of me, and realize that I have maybe another 35 years without him as well. 

I’ve been through a lot in my young life so far, and nothing surpasses the pain of losing him. Nothing has been bigger than the emptiness left by his loss, so far. And in a way, that’s comforting, because I survived. I’m still here.

And he’s still with me. I carry him in my heart, and I know he watches over me and his niece and nephews.

I miss him.

                               (This was at our Birthday party in 2001, the last one we had together.)