Brother,
Do you remember the distinctive sound the stairs made when mom and dad went down after saying goodnight to us? The noise was different, somehow, than at any other time of the day. It felt so comforting to me.
I make that sound now. Mind blowing.
I love you.
LJR
Brother,
I got a new car on Monday. While both babies were sleeping in the back I decided to fiddle with my radio and program it to greet me with ‘You Are Loved.’ Which has been a standard since my first cell phone. I must have screwed it up because in a rare quiet moment today I turned on the car and realized it read ‘You Are Love’ instead.
I spent the ride home thinking about the difference. I chose ‘You Are Loved’ to remind me that despite what my brain chemistry wanted me to believe, there were people in the world to cared for me. I never really found it as comforting as I thought I should. It seemed passive aggressive and too gossamer to be comforting. But, somehow, being reminded ‘You Are Love’ suddenly made way more sense.
Then you came to mind. You, my beloved brother, are Love.
You always have been. I remember so many times that I felt insignificant and invisible and my sweet baby brother would be there… seeing me one way or another. Using his allowance to buy me a trinket. Giving me the best seat for the movie. Proudly wearing the mind-blowingly ugly hat I knit him for Christmas and keeping it in his car until it was just threads… I think you would have packed it up and hauled it home if I hadn’t made you throw it away. Sitting up in bed waiting for me to fall asleep first so your snoring wouldn’t keep me up.
You get what you give in this world and in order to be loved, you first have to be courageous enough to give it. You knew that in your core and always did. I can see it clearer than ever now that I have come to be in touch a bit with the friends you chose after you left home. What a fine group of people. And they love you.
What gets me crying, though, is wondering if you felt loved? Did you pass knowing that the love you felt and emanated shone back to you? Oh god, Joe, I hope you did, though I know that I did not show you the true depth and breadth of mine. Maybe I didn’t even know myself.
In little pieces,
Your sister
Every picture I love
taken
across some table
Sao Miquel,
Portland,
home
laughing
into the camera.
I love you
most interested
in the person
across the table
even if that person
wasn’t me
but I was
your sister
proud
this man
across the table
was my brother.
Dear Joe,
Your 30th birthday is today. This little family of five: me, Dad, Lichen, David & Lotte, and Justine, is celebrating by having dinner together tonight at Lago in Meredith. We tossed around a lot of ideas, including going to Lily Bay. This seemed most fitting because you loved going out to dinner with your family so much. We will conjure you in our midst, toast you, and tell stories about you that will make us laugh and probably cry.
I just got back from a lightning fast trip to Oregon. I was invited on Margy’s coattails to help celebrate the long life of my stepmother, Jean, who died a few weeks before you at 92, I was apprehensive about the trip. Long days of travel for just two days there, the expense, the fact that I hadn’t seen my stepbrothers in three decades, and the fact that Dad didn’t particularly want me to go – made me wonder if it was really a good idea, but I promised Margy I would. So that was that. It does seem a miracle to get up early in the morning in the mountains of northern New Hampshire and be at dinner in a little cabin on the North Umqua River in Oregon that night. The last miles before landing at Portland, as you know, the flight path follows the mighty Columbia, and I thought about Lewis & Clark’s months of travails to reach the Pacific. And they started in St. Louis, not New Hampshire!
We were greeted by Peter, MaryAnn, Topher, Don, and Don’s friend, Jim and had a late dinner together sitting in a new dining room I hadn’t seen before. I gather it was planned by Popper but built after he died. Do you remember that he died at 64 while doing what he loved so much – trout fishing? So long ago. His wife outlived him for 30 years. The cabin they shared is small and funky, full of odd angles and surprising little innovations, with a new bedroom on the west end where Margy and I stayed. And always the magnificent river from every window, and the sound of the rapids as a constant back beat. The cabin is well-placed at a deep bend in the river so that you can look way up and way down. I hadn’t been there in nearly 34 years, and I enjoyed looking at the photos and other memorabilia of my father’s life with Jean. His presence was still very alive there, as yours always will be for me in this home of ours.
The morning of Jean’s memorial party, I received an unexpected gift. Danny, who built a yurt on Popper’s land across the river 22 years ago, offered to take anyone who wanted to go across, two by two in his rowboat. So over we went. The river was high and only Danny had the skill and technique to get us across without sweeping us over the rapids below. He had to make 12 trips to get us all over and back. Once we were all assembled on the other side, Dan led us up into the forest to find Popper’s and Jeanie’s (Jean’s daughter) graves, bushwhacking up the hill in dense rain-forest growth of huge cedars and pines and mammoth dripping ferns. We found Jeanie’s marker without too much trouble but spent ten or fifteen minutes looking for Popper’s without luck. Surprisingly it was me who ultimately found it under a downed tree. Suddenly, there I was at the top of a cliff, river far below behind me, in this deep forest staring down at my father’s grave. I got out my little ziplock of your ashes, and sprinkled some on my father’s grave. There was this brief moment when I felt all three of us were there together – one space one time – just for a moment. In my head, I said, “Popper, meet Joe. Joe, meet Popper.” Peter asked if anyone wanted to speak, and I said your little prayer song, “Great Spirit, guide and protect my father and my son, bless them and keep them….”
The next day I went to Portland and put just a little sprinkle of you in three of your favorite places; Produce Row Café, Powell’s Books and Jake’s Seafood. I thought you’d appreciate that.
I know you by heart, my son, I birthed you 30 years ago today.
Love always, Mom
Dear Joe,
You are with me, my son, still.
I will always miss your voice, your great rolling laugh, your wise and kind words, your keen intelligence and wide knowledge of the world, your affection and your bear hugs. I think of you many many times a day. I still haven’t made it through a day without weeping, but the weeping is simply the expression of my love and not quite so painful, just a quiet part of whom I have become with my wounded heart. You are with me always – that is what matters.
I think a lot about who you are and the role you played for us in this crazy old world we love. Not so much about who you are to me although I think about that too. You played your role in the world so well – even when really little. You just seemed to know how to be Joe right from birth. Your poise with physical discomfort as a baby, your never-failing sunny nature, your curiosity and keen attention always on alert, even when horsing around with your pals. That was the bane of the classroom for all your teachers – that you could goof with your friends while simultaneously taking in every word of a lesson. You #1 showed up and #2 paid attention.
Your sensitivity to the feelings of others was on high alert as well. You were the ultimate anti-bully who always treated others as you wanted to be treated yourself. As Steve Katz said in his comment, “As Jake said, even if you didn’t know Joe very well, it didn’t matter to him. He always treated you like you were an old friend.” You treated everyone like they were an old friend so for you the world was a friendly place. I remember the summer you and Lichen and I spent in Wales. You were six years old and Lichen ten. In a train or bus station, we often got you to ask for information or directions because you were best at it. You had a disarming and direct manner of communication that everyone responded favorably to. I remember Mark Gray saying that my kids were the most well-mannered kids he knew – which of course made me swell with pride. Not that it was my doing. You both were instinctively kind and honest.
But you were discerning too -twice during your elementary school days, you were invited over to a classmates’ houses, and called within an hour or two, asking to be brought home because you didn’t like or trust the other kid. Because of your physical limitations as a child, I was always afraid you would be teased. Lichen told me recently that you sometimes were, but it never lasted long. You were too kind and fun-loving to be a good target, and I never saw you behave like a victim. When you applied to Northfield Mt Hermon, the application asked you to complete the sentence, “I used to…” and you wrote, among other things, “I used to try to be popular.” How did you already know, at 14, the height of adolescent peer pressure, that being popular wasn’t very important? You abhorred bullies and stood up to them, defending others when they were unjustly treated. You had a very healthy sense of what constituted truth and justice. #3 Tell your truth without blame or judgement.
I remember always marveling at how wide open to the world you were, interested in everything and everybody around you. You seemed to just soak up knowledge and experience. You read widely and thought deeply about your experiences. I loved talking to you and hearing about your ideas. As your colleagues have attested, you knew how to research and gain knowledge, if not mastery, of whatever interested you, whether it was scuba-diving in Nevis, the history of jazz, or the neuroscientific effects of THC. You truly liked learning and had a fair mind, and a keen intellect. Not to mention your big heart (‘enlarged heart’, as the medical examiner put it) which I believe paid a role in how you processed information. That’s why you were so perfectly suited to your work with schizophrenics. #4 Don’t be attached to outcome, be open to it. *
*The Four-Fold Way
1. Show up.
2. Pay attention.
3. Tell your truth without blame or judgement
4. Don’t be attached to outcome, be open to it.
From your early babyhood, I had no doubt that you were “an old soul.” If we both are lucky enough to come around again, I would just like to put the intention out there publicly, for what it’s worth, that I’d be mighty pleased if you were my father next time.
With my whole heart, I will love you always,
Mom
What a loving and honest and beautiful letter. i love it, and you, and Joe and Lichen and Robbin so so much.
Dear Joe,
Lotte and I have both been sick this week so I have been trying to keep us quiet. I know it’s the quiet moments when the terrible sorrow creeps in. It seems like everyday I look at the calendar and there might was well be a figure getting smaller on each little square day. My heart actually aches.
I never realized it before but I so often use you as my behavior barometer. Would Joe think I’m nuts at this moment? Would he give me that look? It’s funny, if anyone else looked at me like that or, god forbid, said, ‘um, that’s a bit over the top, Lichen’, I would want to take their head off. (what too much?) I rarely did with you. Maybe because I knew that when you said it it was the real deal. It wasn’t because I was making you uncomfortable or that you were embarrassed by me. I’ve been channeling you this way for years and didn’t really realize it.
I picture you sitting in the car next to me while I tell some long-winded and intensely tedious story about my feelings about some episode that upset me. I look over and say, ‘am I wrong here?’ I could tell at a glance what would come next. Either, ‘no, I can understand how you would feel that way.’ Or, ‘well maybe you could cut her/him some slack?’
Our colds broke our TV-Free household and Lotte and I indulged in a Sesame Street marathon. Memories came fast of long afternoons you and I spent as little kids wiggling and counting. I imagine us sitting side-by-side on the floor in front of the TV, chins up, your little hands crossed in your lap. I was surprised to find I knew the words to the songs. All the same people are still on the show – how is it that they don’t look any older!? It made me feel so sad to not be able to phone you up and talk about the genius of Sesame Street. At one point I was holding Lotte and we were waltzing through the kitchen – I imagined you sitting on the sofa watching us and grinning that approving grin.
Part of me is terrified that without you to ground me my angst and doubt and fear will spin me away. Did you know you were my greek chorus, my rudder, my guardian?
Oh LIchen, thank you for sharing this pain and fondness, its such a strong and courageous thing to do, I am sure that Joe’s spirit is giving you that approving grin. Hang in there, lots of love
Dear Joe,
It’s been almost two months. Just after I wrote that sentence, Dad came out and put a little book magnet in my hand. This one was titled “Mighty Joe.” It must have been ten years ago that I made everyone tiny book magnets and ornaments for Christmas. You kept it all this time.
Your attitude about material things was interesting to me who has an entire house of stuff. Everything you owned could have fit on the back seat of your Volvo – mostly clothes and things you had been given, many of them gifts from me. Paintings, ornaments, the cookbook, Food for Thought, I wrote for you when you went to Reed, other handmade books, cards, potholders, etc. I know how much you loved Christmas, loved getting gifts, loved opening them, exclaiming over them. Often your gifts just went back in a bag and stayed there, sometimes for months or years. I think you liked what a gift represented metaphorically much more the physical object itself. You gave such wonderful thoughtful gifts – I know you really put a lot of thought into what you bestowed on others, and you appreciated the metaphorical gifts you received, but you just didn’t care all that much about the objects themselves.
You traveled light. Even with your love of reading – you read voraciously – but always borrowed from the library, so there were only a few books among your possessions. It was people you loved and kept with you. As you yourself said, you were “fiercely loyal.” Yes you were, my son, so fiercely loving and loyal. How can I say how deeply you are missed. This family of four is a badly limping three-legged dog. We will slowly learn to walk, maybe even to run, but the limp will always remain. A few weeks ago I had a recurring daymare of being swept downstream on a wide river – the river of my life I suppose, or the river of time. I could see your figure standing on the shore getting smaller and smaller in the distance until you disappeared entirely. It mades me so sad to be leaving you behind. Our lives will sweep on, Lotte will grow up, the rest of us will grow older, Lichen and David may have more children that will never know their Uncle Joe. You will not be here with us to see it all unfold.
Last week I posted that wonderful poem, Desiderata, a poem that I have always striven to live by. To me the most important phrase in it has always been, “And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.” For forty five years I have felt that way, come thick or thin, that the universe is unfolding as it should, even with the loss of loved ones, even that hard first year of all the medical interventions you needed. But right now, I feel thoroughly shaken in my belief that the universe unfolds as it should. I feel cast out of my own life – unable to count my blessings on a daily basis as I always have. I feel bereft and outraged at the loss of you. I know intellectually that I am still blessed – that my life is filled with love and goodness. Robbin, Lichen, David, Lotte and I will form a new little family. We will hold your memory firmly in our hearts and we will find our way into a future without you. We will be different. We cannot go back to who we were before.
I know you would wish us to thrive. I know you would say your Joe version of Desiderata to us. You would cajole and joke, and smile and deliver monster hugs and make us all feel better. You would help us feel joy and beatitude again.
It’s funny – a week after you died I got a cold and my left ear plugged up. The cold improved, then came back more severely and now has improved again, but through it all I still have this plugged ear. It occurred to me that this is the ear through which I heard the bad news that terrible night. News I still have trouble accepting. I wonder how long it will take for my ear to unplug – I know there is hearing behind the plug, but until the blockage goes away, I won’t hear very well. Maybe grief is like that – behind the veil of grief is praise. I grieve deeply because I love so deeply. The loss of you is huge, but as I move through this time of sorrow, perhaps slowly, over time, the praise I feel for having you in my life as long as I did will gradually hold sway over the sadness. Yes. I feel you nodding. Yes.
This is a sweet grievance. Came across it as I was having a period of intense loss realizing that as you put it Joe has become static as we continue along the river of life. It was very nice for me to read. I know he altered and helped shape the path of my river but I was expecting that we would have so many more miles to see each other face to face. I think acceptance continues to come slowly, thank goodness for memories as the joy of our friendship can wash upon me just as the pain of sorrows. Expressing love to those around us is the best way to feel Joe’s presence. Much Love, Mike
Dear Joe,
It seems to me that when you lose a parent, you lose their past, but when you lose a child, you lose their future. It hurts to lose your future, Joe.
I know that we never talked about girlfriends and romance. You never brought a girlfriend home. I worried about whether you were lonely – so many of your friends were happily paired up. Yet I was utterly certain, that sooner or later, in your thirties I thought, or maybe even forties, some woman would meet you, maybe in the offices or halls of Dartmouth Hitchcock, and would say, “Yes. It’s you I want. You are the one for me.” You, Joe, who were so kind, so thoughtful, smart, discerning, funny, cheerful and loving. Who wouldn’t want you? – I often thought to myself, with my mother love.
I was so sure of your future pairing with some good woman that I saved two family rings for you to choose from. One was my mother’s, given to her by Jack, a lovely sapphire flanked by diamonds. The other was your great grandmother’s ring, a beautiful canary diamond flanked by two teardrop sapphires. It was my favorite, given to me by Mopper shortly after I married Robbin. I wore it a lot in those early days, and when walking in the woods one day discovered to my horror that one of its pale sapphires had fallen out of its setting. Even though we were very poor in those days, I scraped together waitressing tips to buy two replacement sapphires of rich indigo blue, and had the ring reset. The dark sapphires played nicely against the yellow diamond. I had a feeling that even though Jack’s ring was bigger and more valuable, this one was the one you would have picked for your future love’s finger.
The morning of your service, I gave both rings away – to David and to Margy. David gave Jack’s ring to Lichen on Valentine’s Day, and it sparkles on her middle finger next to her wedding and engagement rings, looking very nice indeed. The other is cherished by my sister, who probably should have received it in the first place, being our grandmother’s namesake.
I think you would approve. But oh how fiercely I wish it had turned out otherwise.
I remember your third grade teacher telling me that she asked your class what they wanted to be when they grew up, and as the question went around the circle, the answers – fireman, astronaut, nurse, president, doctor, teacher – were what she expected until she got to you. You stated simply and firmly, “I want to be a daddy.” You would have been such a fine one, my son.
The other day I was with my oldest friend, you know who, when she blurted out, “I hope that Joe is my father in my next life.” Yes.
Love always, Mom
I keep a Morale Folder. In it I put anything that raises my morale. I found these two notes from Joe there. Both were written when he left for freshman year at Reed College in Portland, OR – a long way from home.
Mom & Dad,
If I don’t see either of you tomorrow, I just wanted to thank you…well, for everything. I know that I often seem indifferent, but it is just my response to not knowing how to react. Over the past couple of years, I’ve gone through a lot, most of it without you guys being around. No matter what I’ve been through, I knew you guys were always there, if not physically, to support me. I appreciate your love and acceptance of me (and all my faults) more than you can possibly know. Now that I will be going to school almost as far as I possibly can without treading sea water, it will be harder for me to rely on you. I may be on my own but I’ll always need you two. I love my parents and my sister more than anything.
Joe
Postcard to Lichen, postmarked from Portland a few weeks later:
Lichen,
I’m finally in Oregon. It reminds me of home only it’s 3000 miles from the people I love. Thank you sooo much for the meals at Applebees, they provided much needed gorging. I can’t stand not being able to talk with you or Mom face to face, or seeing Dad’s smiling eyes. How am I going to deal with this distance?
Love, Joe
I did NOT – just transcribed it and put my note in the morale folder. I remember asking your permission. Sheesh.
Wait, you stole my morale postcard!? Sheesh.
These melted me down. Joe of the loving and generous soul… I would be a much different person without him teaching me.
Dear Joe,
I spent this morning with you. I didn’t know it until now. I have an old friend with whom my relationship has always been rocky. We are very close and then we implode barbarous, unforgivable words and swear never to speak again. This pattern has repeated since I was in 7th grade. Last time we spoke he cruelly forbade me from ever contacting him. Despite this he cares for me and, by extension, for you. I took the risk and got in touch with him today – told him you were gone.
I had often avoided old friends. Going to the market in the Valley I’d slink around the shelving avoiding eye contact. I felt like when I was in touch with them meant I had to also confront the person I used to be and I didn’t like her much. It made it easier easier to grow to leave my old self behind. Of course, it seems obvious that you would also lose the good stuff from your past without them to watch over it.
Thing is, you were in on all the good stuff. My happy memories from being a kid pretty much all involve my little brother. You didn’t always remember them yourself, of course, we all think different things are important, but we could spend long hours reminding each other. We did it once or twice in the Azores, leaning in and laughing, pink cheeks, two sets of blue sparkly eyes… we were one then.
But now you are gone, my counter point, and I need my old friends to play that role. He was not upset to hear from me, this fellow, and we can tell stories about you. It will take time to rebuild my former friendships with Tegan, Erin, Casey, Seth, Jackson, and so many others. Your friends too. Together, may they become the stewards of our childhood. Otherwise, I’m afraid that my old self my disappear entirely.
I love you my brother.
Lichen
From “A Year with Rumi” for Oct 12
What’s Not Here
I start out on this road,
call it ‘love’ or ‘emptiness’.
I only know what’s not here.
Resentment seeds, backscratching greed,
worrying about outcome, fear of people.
When a bird gets free,
it does not go back for remnants
left at the bottom of the cage.
Close by, I’m rain. Far off,
a cloud of fire. I seem restless,
but I am deeply at ease.
Branches tremble. The roots are still.
I am a universe in a handful of dirt.,
whole when totally demolished.
Talk about ‘choices’ does not apply to me.
While intelligence considers options,
I am somewhere lost in the wind.