The last time I visited my brother
… one of those infrequent, too infrequent, times, the result of modern adult
children, adult sibling, going separate ways, pursuing other lives, jobs and
careers, lifestyles, moving away from each other, from the family homestead out
of necessity or desire or just the fortunes and happenstances life, of who we
are, who we became, always promising to get together when we could, but those
times were too infrequent and we joked about funerals becoming family reunions,
like his funeral became, Mike taken from us too soon, leaving us too soon,
feeling the pain, the hole created in our lives; all the sibling and spouses,
children, grandchildren even, and the remaining aunts and uncles and cousins
gathered to say goodbye and console each other and to remember, and we made
promises anew that we knew we wouldn’t, couldn’t keep, after we said goodbye
and returned to points too far to stay in touch as we promised, until the next
funeral, just last year that we didn’t reunite at, what with COVID and fixed
salaries and masks and restrictions – and now there are five of us!
But
the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick … where
I try to visit as often as I can, a couple times a year at least, summer and
fall, maybe spring, but never in winter, trying to find a grave under all the
snow, though I’ve said I would, but it’s Maine and the snow is deep, but he’s
among new friends, good company, right there next to Bowdoin’s athletic field
where he can cheer on the lacrosse team - does he even like lacrosse? And he’s
buried alongside other heroes, General Chamberlain of Civil War fame, for one,
Maine’s native son, who besides a few tourists, history buffs, probably doesn’t
get much family visiting him. I’ve never wandered by, not even sure where his
grave is there among the older stones and obelisks intermingled with never
stones, old family names, some nice shiny marble interspersed among the
granites, worn with age and hard to read the chiseled names and dates, moss and
lichen covered. Well-meaning on my part, to visit often, but some months I just
don’t make it down, the long drive from here to there, the demands of life in
later years, retirement.
But
the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick, among
the other heroes … as always, I had brought some music to play for him, or
rather to play for me, for my piece of mind, music I want to hear more than
music he might choose to listen to, some classical pieces, some show tunes,
movie tunes from movies I’m not sure he ever saw, except maybe the one from
long ago, or perhaps he has forgotten it, but it’s one of my favorites from
growing up, music from the annual, perennial movie, Peter Pan, the Mary
Martin version, black and white now colorized, where Wendy asks the question I
sometimes ask of Mike, where do you live, Peter, and Peter breaks into
song, I have a place where dreams are born, and time is never planned, it’s
not on any chart, you must find it with your heart, yes, Neverland, second
star to the right and straight on till morning, where we dreamers go when we
leave, so it’s Neverland and the newer John William’s Flight to Neverland,
for us lost boys, music to accompany us there, from here standing alone in a
cemetery in Brunswick to Neverland and home again, to remember the stories. And
then some Hero songs, Fanfare for the Common Man, Mike a hero among us
common men, and Amazing Grace sung by Celtic voices, no big church choir
or even a less musical congregation making their joyful noise, I once was
lost but now am, - no, I’m still lost sometimes, here alone at his grave,
music streaming from my phone, louder than it should be, perhaps, but it makes
me feel better, standing here, the tears streaming down my face, my sniffling covered
by the music. And we end with Mike’s song, not the Dylan version he was
listening to, but a version I like better, Forever Young, by The Tenors
– after all, the music is for me – and may we stay forever young, he and I.
But
the last time I visited my brother, there at the cemetery in Brunswick, among
the other heroes, music at the ready, Fanfare streaming from my phone,
it began to rain, lightly, enough to spill onto my face even as the tears began
to fall at the opening trumpets of the fanfare, no words, just trumpets, three
notes, ta-ta-ta, three more notes, ta-ta-ta, and four more descending, ta – ta
– ta – ta, in beautiful harmony, at peace now, here with Mike, once again. Cut
now because it’s to Mike’s song before the rain comes too fast, too hard, just
he and I, and that long pause just before the end, then softly, for both of us,
may you stay forever young, brothers sharing a room, twin beds separated
across a short space, even now separated by death, where I can still feel him, still
feel safe, still comforted knowing he was there, feeling the strength, the
courage, the wisdom of a big brother leaving too soon, leaving me alone.
The
last time I visited my brother, it began to rain, and our visit, too infrequent,
was cut short …
No comments:
Post a Comment