April 11, 1974 is
the day my brother died, and in some ways, life as my family knew it, or thought we would know it, died too. Not immediately. It happened in degrees.
For several years after George died, Mom would want us to remember him so she would have us look at his baby book and write or talk about our memories of him. She would make his favorite cookies, date pinwheels. It was hard to know how to respond.
Just like it was hard to know how to respond when people would ask me how many brothers and sisters I had. "Three, but one died." Which was always awkward for the person who had asked, and for me, but I always felt guilty if I just said, "Two", like I was leaving him out, like he didn't count anymore. But he did count because even though he was gone, his absence still had a presence to it.
His absence was there even though we moved to a different house where he had never been. I remember feeling it when I would go on walks with my dad and when my mom told me she was going to have another baby. The feeling of his absence overwhelmed me at girl's camp, up in the mountains of Arizona.
My children know they have an Uncle George. Sometimes my parents talk about him. My dad calls him "ol' Georgie boy," and even after 36 years can't speak of him without choking up, (but he's notorious for that, teariness)
Sometimes I talk about him. My children have seen pictures.
Something strange. When I look at pictures of him, intellectually I know he is an 11, just a month shy of 12, year-old boy. I know that I am a middle-aged, grown woman who has 5 children older than he was when he died, but I look at those pictures of him and I don't see a little boy. I see my older brother.
Last year, my oldest child wrote a series of poems about George from all of the different family member's perspectives at that time. She captured so much of the emotion and the experience. It is almost like she knows him. Like he is still present in his absence.
I think that for my parents one of the hardest things about losing their child was the feeling that eventually no one would notice the day that came to be one of the most pivotal days in their lives. And that people would forget this person that meant so much to them.
I used to always try to call my parents on April 11 to let them know that I am thinking about him and about them and about how things were. I didn't call this year. Maybe I should have. This year I blogged instead.
See Mom? I remember.
6 comments:
Dona, you are such a beautiful writer. Thank you for sharing your gift with words and your heartfelt emotions.
Oh! Dona,
How beautiful you are and how beautifully and tenderly you express yourself in writing.
You have blessed my heart by your remembrances and putting your feelings into these words and photos.
Easter and Easter hymns raise our focus above the pain & separation of death and give us a chance to 'sing out' about our promised resurrection and reunion with George that we have because of our Savior.
I will often hug those loved ones I'm blessed to be here on earth with now and I'll give them some of the extra 'George hugs greetings' now, too -rather than just store them all away until we can again greet George with a hug.
Love doesn't forget and it doesn't die - it remembers and it grows with time into the eternities.
Love & hugs,
Mom
Presence in absence. It can be a powerful thing.
Thanks for your thoughts.
Wow, this explains a lot for me, because yesterday--for some reason--George was on my mind all day. It was almost like I felt his presence (or the absence thereof) stronger than on normal days. I even mentioned it to my mom. I had no idea it was the anniversary if his passing. This is beautiful, thank you!
That picture is just so cute that when I saw it I pretty much wanted to bawl.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful, sad, hopeful story.
Wow. That must have been a hard thing to grow up with. I am sorry for your pain. But this was a great tribute... to your whole family.
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