My brother, Kevin, came “home” for the last time this past weekend. For the last 3 months, he and his family have been packing up their lives and preparing to move to Chicago. He got a fat promotion, and what once felt exciting and new, is now perplexing and heart-wrenching. Since before Thanksgiving, he has been back and forth between his new office, his temporary hotel room in Chicago, Philadelphia International Airport, his home in Delran, and his house for sale in the Poconos, probably more than he’s even had a chance to shave.
It’s been an emotional whirlwind for everyone. My mom called me a few weeks ago to tell me she had driven over to their house in Delran to just pop in and say hi, but she had to turn around and go home once she saw the “For Sale” sign. She’s been bawling ever since.
Kev and I have always been very close siblings. He has always carefully indulged my emotional propensities, and been one of my biggest cheerleaders. He’s the kind of guy that genuinely celebrates your milestones with you. He is cheerful, fun, sincere, and just sensitive enough so as to be heartfelt, without abandoning his place in the world as a strong, solid, tower of a man – literally. He’s big and tall like our dad, and the day our dad died in an explosion, Kev was the one who picked me up off the floor. He’s been brushing off my bruises ever since.
I’ve mainly been stuffing what I’ve been feeling. I can’t wrap my mind around it enough to accurately express myself, so I don’t. When I’m in their presence, words fail me. Me. The writer. The one who can express herself to a fault. The knot in my throat is so suffocating, that my words can’t make it through even if they tried. Besides, I don’t think they want to. My words, that is. I don’t think they want to break through to the other side. After all, what use would my brother’s family have for words that might only make them feel worse? So I hold it all in.
As I drove down Bridgeboro Road, making the 4-mile drive their house for the last time, the song “Here I Go Again” played on the car stereo. I was immediately taken back to countless rock and roll experiences my siblings, my husband, and I have shared over the years. This particular song conjured images of Kev’s 6′ 6″ big galoot, whiter-than-white-boy, uncoordinated frame, pogo-ing up and down overzealously in a Riverside bar, all-smiles, surrounded by his beloved friends and family while he rocked out to his favorite 80’s song of all time. All was right with the world and even back then I knew I was locked inside a happy, wonderful memory – suspended in time within a moment I wanted to remember forever. As the song now played faintly along in the background of my potent reminiscence, I was filled with a somber, almost paralyzed dejectedness. I drove on, only mildly aware of the road before me.
As I engaged my left turn signal and waited for traffic to pass, I glanced down his street to the side of me and caught a glimpse of the “For Sale” sign in the distance. I felt a little surge of the surreal, similar to what my mother had described, and contemplated turning around as she had. But unlike my mom’s tearful withdrawal, my tears were caught behind some strange veil of denial and bewilderment. Was all this really happening?
As I approached the house, I noticed the driveway was empty and the house looked abandoned. Once a vibrant, lively home filled with friends, family, food, fun, laughter, and neighborhood kids zipping in and out of the front door and up and down the street, it was now merely a still, silent shell of vinyl siding, drywall and hardwood. It was a strange thing to behold and for a moment, I wondered if I was caught in what felt like a very realistic dream. Just then, Kev walked out to his car and I don’t know if I felt relief or dread at the sight of him. Relief because he was still here, where I felt he belonged. Dread because it meant that I’d have to finally come face to face with the reality that, up until now, I’d been unwilling to confront.
We greeted one another with a sort of familial discomfort. I was cordial, yet despondent and his tone was hovering somewhere between overwhelmed and intolerant. We walked up to the door and he mentioned that the whole thing was just too weird and the kids couldn’t even stand to be in the house. They had gone to friends’ houses again since it was too depressing to be inside their own. I said I couldn’t blame them, but noticed my 6-year old daughter, Michaelina, looking sad at the mention of them not being there. She had wanted to give her cousins the drawings she had made for them. Thankfully, Kerry, my sister-in-law, called the kids home as soon as we walked in, so Michaelina stood there impatiently waiting, elated.
My 10-year old niece, Cara, is like a big sister to Lina, and she cherishes every moment spent with her. Cara is so good with her. She takes care of her like a little mommy and makes her laugh and giggle with a joy so pure it nearly explodes from the depths of her young, impressionable being. Tommy, Cara’s 8-year old little brother, is quite simply a ball of fire. His smarts, and athletic ability is nothing short of a veritable force to be reckoned with. Lina adores him too. He has our family’s sense of humor to boot, which means he’ll no doubt follow in his uncles’ goofy footsteps and in all probability be crowned class clown, just like his Aunt and Nana before him.
Inside, the boxes were stacked floor to ceiling. The home that once bustled with an infectious energy was now hollow, and echoed in an unrecognizable, incomprehensible way. While she waited for her cousins, Michaelina handed her drawings to Uncle Kevin, who was visibly touched and passed them to Aunt Kerry, who choked back her own sentimental sorrow at the sweetness of Lina’s gesture. The emotion in the room was palpably depressing, but somehow everyone was holding it together.
Cara suddenly burst through the front door, and her characteristically energetic entrance managed to soothe the awkwardness for the time being. Michaelina beamed and ran off with her cousin. Not before long, Cara began throwing her bedding over the banister. “Lina can have it,” Kerry said. I took a garbage bag and stuffed in all the things that Lina was eagerly taking with her, treasures that would always remind her of her cousins that once lived literally down the road.
I looked out at the deck. Empty, except for a few pieces of bare patio furniture that the movers would be hauling in another day or two. I looked in the dining room, where so many holiday meals had been shared. Packed. I realized how strange it is that year after year goes by and we tend to take for granted family bonds and time (not) spent together. Holidays, dinners, baby showers, surprise parties, cookouts, super-bowls, concerts, cocktails, and more. Kevin and Kerry have seen to it that our family has stuck together. Over the years, and through it all, we have had our share of disagreements and tension, but moreso fun and a zillion laughs inside these four walls.
I looked in the family room, and for a moment was struck by the solitary image of Kev’s chair. He has “his” chair. Just like my dad did. Just like I have. Just like our brother, Brian has. (Hey, why doesn’t our brother Bob have one?) We grew up watching our dad stake his claim to a single piece of furniture in the family room that none of us were permitted to occupy in his presence. He’d read the paper, the bible, Civil War books, watched M.A.S.H., lectured his children, and dozed off in his chair. It was the place I last saw my father before he died. It was the place I last recall smelling his aftershave after he was long gone. My dad’s chair was home to him, and now we all had our own. In fact, 8 years ago, when I first laid eyes on the chair that Kev had purchased for himself, like a chair-obsessed copycat, I ran out and bought the exact same piece. It now sits big and cozy in a corner of our family room, and whenever I lay in it, that’s when I truly feel at “home.”
Looking at Kev’s chair now, I silently wished for him that same sense of peace and calm that comes with all things comfortable and familiar. I offered up a quiet intention that when his chair is set down in thier new family room, may he doze off easily, and at once feel at home.
All too soon it was time for my baby’s nap, and time for the dreaded goodbye. We had said goodbye at the farewell party the week before, but this was different. Kerry thanked us for the cards and gifts, gave a quick peck on the cheek, and quickly hurried off into the kitchen. She had to. I know that. It was too strange, too difficult, too uncomfortable. Michaelina was going to stay for a while and play with Cara and her Nana would bring her home, so Kev walked the baby and me out to the car.
“It doesn’t feel real,” I managed.
“I know,” he said.
“I still can’t believe it’s really happening.” I looked down at the sidewalk.
“I know,” he said again.
As I strapped the baby into his car seat, we laughed at his cuteness and Kev commented how he’d be walking and talking by the next time he saw him. It was a poignant realization and I searched for a logical segue, but nothing came. After a moment, he said he just wanted to get out of there already. Looking at the boxes and the empty rooms, he said, was just too damn depressing. He was ready to just be done with it all.
I nodded in understanding. It had to be so hard. I looked at him standing in his driveway for the last time and just shrugged. “Kev. I don’t know what to say.”
“There isn’t anything to say,” he replied, and reached out and hugged me. The knot in my throat released enough to whisper, “There aren’t words,” and I let the tears gently spill over for the first time.
“Be strong, okay?” he said, his own eyes now red and glossy.
I smiled and chuckled at the melodrama and quickly scurried around to the driver’s side. I turned the ignition and “Here I Go Again” resumed it’s play. I couldn’t manage eye contact as he watched me back my truck out of his driveway, but once I switched gears, I put down the window and sang out the lyrics. We both laughed and I drove down the road as he waved me out of sight.
I cried all the way home. I put the baby down for his nap and curled up in my chair. I cried so hard I thought I’d drown in self-pity. Things would never be the same. Soon I noticed the ocean of tear-soaked tissues littering my floor, and I arrived at the quiet truth of, “This too shall pass… There is a time and a season for every purpose under heaven.” Our family is together and strong, regardless of the distance between us, and for that simple fact – Kevin, Kerry, Cara and Tommy are all owed a great deal of thanks. It wasn’t long before I dozed off in my chair. Exhausted, but home.
