Monday, May 10, 2021
I remember a voice. I remember a smile. I remember conspiratorially stopping for ice cream after soccer games and agreeing not to tell Mom or my brothers, lest they be jealous. I remember flying kites and balsawood models, and shooting off rockets, and going for airplane rides where I got to be the co-pilot. I remember Sunday afternoons spent at small airfields, watching planes take off and land, and airshows where a WW I bi-plane flew 10 feet off the ground. I remember magic tricks performed at birthday parties, coins found behind ears and disappeared under handkerchiefs. I remember asking a middle aged couple in Queens, NY, if we could cut a hole in their basement ceiling so we could finally, after 40 years, unearth a childhood violin sealed within by my grandfather while my dad was recovering from eye surgery, and which he had been unable to play with a patch over his eye. I remember leaving there disappointed, even though we had promised to repair the hole. I remember square dances, and music recitals, and school plays, all of which he never missed. I remember being unbearably embarrassed by the 1970's hippie-customized van he'd pick me up from school in in 1982 or '83. And I remember he was always just happy to see me. I remember stories about the infamous Beanie Crutch, his childhood friend, and about poor long-lost Uncle Eddie, his childhood's tragedy. I remember encouragement to do what I love and to follow my heart. I remember disagreements and power struggles and difficulties, too. But none of that matters now. What I remember now, all I need to remember, the only thing that's important, the only thing that ever is, is that this complex, often conflicted, authentic, authentically flawed but always intensely alive human being was part of my life for all of my life, until now. And he loved me. And even with everything, I loved him, too. I can only hope he knew how much.
