David would have been 56 today. A photo of us, my head resting on his right shoulder and our brother Tommy sitting at his left, pops up in my Facebook feed as a “memory”—as if I would forget this birthday without this visual reminder. The photo is from a restaurant in Houston called Julia’s where we had a fantastic dinner years ago, a restaurant that, like my brother, is now gone.
In my inbox, a daily email from the Writer’s Almanac says today, March 13, is the birthday of Percival Lowell, Janet Flanner, Pope Innocent XII, even Uncle Sam—at least the day he was “born” in the form of a cartoon character in 1852 in a publication called the New York Lantern. It seems David’s name, far more important to me than any of these, should also appear here in the list of VIP birthdays as I scroll.
Wikipedia says, “March 13 is the 72nd day of the year (73rd in leap years) in the Gregorian calendar. There are 293 days remaining until the end of the year.” There are 365 days—or 364 if next year is a leap year—before I feel quite this feeling again.
I saw Tommy last week when he turned 53. I know the proximity in their birthdays brought both celebration and competition growing up. Now it causes only sadness. Already, Tommy has surpassed David’s life by six years, which seems like bad math; David was born three years before Tommy. But this is what death does; it changes math. It made Tommy my oldest brother.
Forty-seven years isn’t so bad, and anyone who knew David knew he lived more than most people do in a lifetime in that span. Still, it’s hard not to feel cheated each and every year, as I am greedy. Wanting more, so much more. And unable to add much.
Though I had a rare dream about David a couple of weeks ago, so rare in fact that it might have been only the third time that he has appeared in my unconsciousness this way, unsummoned by me, a welcome visitor. In the scene, David was driving a speedboat—too fast, no surprise—while I sat in the seat behind him, being splashed with spray and laughing raucously. It felt dangerous and safe at the same time, a sense my brother provoked easily. Upon waking, I cried as I cried when I lost him the first time, in real life, the way waking up reminded me of the reality each and every day for years, and not just on his birthday.
It was strange last week, as always, to be back “home” in Houston, surrounded in our mother’s house by her photos and mementos of David—her own shrine, different from mine, from Tommy’s—reminding me of our deeply varied relationships, the relationships that still go on for each of us, even now, as a wise writer recently wrote me.
I have not yet lived as long as David did, but I hope to, and I hope to surpass him too. As the baby of the family, I wonder if I will outlive everyone eventually, if not also go beyond their years, their numbers, their experiences. I wonder, as we all must do, whether we will meet again, somewhere where numbers don’t exist.
I love Tommy, and I know he loves me too, but we are unlikely to put our heads on each other the way I did that night after dinner, warm with red wine, with good food, and with the comfort, the security, the assuredness of my siblings, with our brother David between us.
We are minus one and counting.
My mom and I both love going to the movies. Ever since I was a little kid, we’ve enjoyed sitting in the dark together — next to each other, but among strangers, watching someone else’s story unfold onscreen in front of us, popcorn in hand. The ritual has always provided a mutual enjoyable distraction from our lives, from reality, from each other.
I knew that my former-MFA professor/now-friend Suzanne would be attending, but I had no idea she would be on the same plane until we ran into each other while boarding. We gaped at each other happily upon the discovery. Southwest Airline’s sometimes-annoying lack of seat reservations paid off this time, as we were able to sit together and go through all the panels and readings and author-signings that we wanted to attend, surely annoying the guy in the aisle seat who had hoped for a quiet nap. Like two kids salivating over 101 delightful Baskin Robbins flavors of ice cream and able to choose just a few, we talked through the many sessions and presenters, while she gave me tips and insights and encouragement.
I had the great fortune of meeting (nervously and sweatily, after pumping myself up like a boxer entering a ring) Jill Bialosky and Roger Rosenblatt, two of my literary heroes who had penned memoirs about loss that meant a great deal to me as I worked on my manuscript about losing my brother. I look up to both like they are rock stars, and both were so kind to me that I was in tears after our brief encounters.
In the middle of the enormous book fair, I glanced down at one exhibitor’s table (one of 800) and my eyes landed on a book by a woman I used to be in a writing group with, aptly titled, What is Amazing. Exhausted, I slumped in a chair at a table covered with dozens of bookmarks, brochures, and postcards from journals, schools and publishers. Out popped one with a quote about Barton Springs at the very same moment my friend in Austin texted me out of the blue. Wow!! What a coincidence! We’ll be plunging in next month! She wrote when I told her.
It took me weeks to work through my upset over losing David Bowie early this year, then I nearly, literally, fell down when my coworker announced to me that Prince —PRINCE! — had died. Leonard Cohen’s exit right after the election was an especially poetic touch from this gruesome year. I really thought the sucker punch of the death of George Michael ON CHRISTMAS DAY might be the end of a year full of tremendous, unfair, cruel losses. So many insanely talented people who made such a difference to my growing up. But no.
Ah, holidays. They are thorny for most people over the age of five on some level, I imagine. Between family and travel and scheduling, there are many pitfalls. Today, despite the fact that my husband and I made a deliberate decision to avoid all of these potential stressors and decided to stay home and relax, I am feeling a trifle taxed, and also a little sad — perhaps precisely because we avoided them.
I work at a women’s college — the oldest in the country, in fact. I didn’t attend one myself, but being there feels good — as a woman, as a feminist, as a person, as an American.
A couple of days ago, I clicked the small ornate letter T on my iPhone, as I do most mornings, and ran my finger down the appealingly slick surface, scanning the headlines in my New York Times app. Sick of the elections, racial tensions and ongoing police dramas, I kept scrolling, taking note of items but not engaging enough to actually click on anything until I saw an article titled, “
New England really knows how to die.
I know this display is a warning of what’s to come — New England winter, neither colorful nor gentle, will soon enough strip the landscape bare, leaving the trees shiveringly naked and the view will be monochrome. But for now, like a kid, I kick the crimson leaves as I walk the dogs, and look up to the bright blue sky full of incredible eye candy, rejoicing in the gorgeous way of dying that only this region seems to know.
They say things come in threes. This time, three talented, funny, sweet guys I cared about—all in their early 40s, all musicians—are gone within three months.
Steady Hand Creative 