Before and After

My first blog post of the year. I've been meaning to, of course. Christmas. My brother and his sweet wife flew up on Christmas day, in time for dinner, and stayed til Saturday, and we had a marvelous time. Books read in 2018 (or not read -- my reading hit a road block and only staggered along after). Mom's first "missed" birthday, then the first anniversary of her death. And also the plays we went to, the dinners with Dad and Ann, and general life stuff. Lots of "posts" written in my head that never made it to the keyboard, but things were going along the way they do.

Then. Monday, March 1st. Ed's birthday. Breakfast. He opened a gift from my dad and Ann -- a set of dvd's about classic cars -- nice! I made his favorite spinach quiche for lunch. Afternoon, a little after three o'clock. I was puttering in the bedroom when the phone rang. Ed walked in, holding the phone, looking anguished. My dad, on the phone. My little brother. A tractor-trailer, pulling out, making a left turn in front of my brother in his little red Tesla. The car he'd told us all about at Christmas. The car he babied so much that he now drove to work early so he could get her the safest parking spot. The world fell apart.

The next morning my dad and Ann and I flew to Florida and gathered with my sister, my brother's four kids and their various spouses, their kids, and my sister-in-law at my brother's house. My sister-in-law's house. The beautiful house they just bought and are still settling their things into. My sister-in-law gave me the tour, and as we walked through the house I heard my brother's voice telling me about how the dogs leap down the stairs, and about the crazy big master bathroom, and about how he was sewing curtains for the little movie theatre he'd created off the garage. We talked and cried and drank. We ate meals and laughed over stories, old and more recent, of my brother. He was a force of nature. Bursting with ideas and plans, and with the intelligence, energy, and ability to implement them. He was funny. Mischievous, but never mean. Tremendously affectionate. Gentle. In the last photo I have of him with my mom he is playing the guitar for her. Smart. So smart. He was a computer programmer, and was relishing his job with a company that finally offered him the scope, resources, and opportunity to stretch himself and have fun.

On Monday the rabbi came and performed the funeral service. He recited the prayers that Jews have read as they mourn their loved ones for so many generations. Words of grief and faith and hope. My sister-in-law couldn't speak, so rabbi read for her, the vows she and my brother had made to each other before this rabbi, on their wedding day. The children spoke, telling stories of their father. Of training for and running in marathons, of lessons in auto repair, of computer projects, of trips. My dad, my sister, and I spoke, telling stories of his childhood. Old family stories of an adventurous kid who wasn't inclined to look before he leaped, who climbed rocks and trees, who kept my parents on their toes (and in emergency rooms). Of a son who, after watching his dad rebuilt an MG sports car, went out and bought his own MG Midget to work on (the beginning of a career as a very proficient mechanic). Of radio controlled boats and planes, built and enjoyed and crashed and rebuilt together. Of a brother who was a companion in exploring woods, building dams, riding ponies, sitting through repeat showings of "Star Wars"(in 1977, before it was "Episode IV"), playing "Asteroids," and so on. Of later years when he became the trusted friend I went to for advice on all-things-technology, tips on investing, commiseration in child-rearing, and tips on cooking and booze.

On Wednesday I came home. To hugs and laundry. To my Finny, who didn't know why I left him, but who is now sticking to me tighter than ever. To a life that looks the same but has a gaping hole. And my loss pales next to that of my father, my sister-in-law, my brother's children. Last night was the last of the seven days of shiva since the funeral. His name was read in the synagogue on Friday, and will be read for the next three Fridays to come. His affairs will be worked through and settled. But our grief won't proceed so neatly. It will ebb, then surge back like a tidal wave. We will forget, momentarily, what has happened, and reach for the phone to tell him something. To ask a question. And then remember. And keep remembering. He was too brilliant, vital, loving, to ever be forgotten.