On my mother's birthday -- her 84th, had she lived -- I called my brother to remind him that he's still her favorite, though he is hopelessly pigheaded.
As if he needs reminding.
Joe never forgets anything. Our mother used to say it was because he was born blind, that God gave him a great memory to make up for his loss of sight.
It didn't seem to me a very fair trade. But every time she said it, Joe would light up like Christmas. I figured, if it made him happy, why argue?
Personally, I don't think his memory has anything to do with being blind; he just likes to recall things I'd rather forget.
My age, for instance. He loves to remind me that I am even older than he is.
Or how when we were kids, I accidentally on purpose locked him out of the house and he smashed a window and cut his wrist and had to get 12 stitches.
Or the names of all the boys I dated in high school (both of them), and how he'd be waiting up for me when I came in late.
Or the exact date I left home for good, and the ill-chosen words I said to our mother on my way out the door.
He remembers all that and more. What he can't seem to recall, no matter how hard he tries, is that sooner or later in every loss there comes a time to stop grieving, to let go of sorrow and start being happy.
But that time is different for each of us; no one can determine it for anyone else.
He has grieved for our mother for 14 years. I could tell him that's long enough, he doesn't need to do it anymore; he doesn't have to be sad on her birthday; he can honor her memory with laughter as much as tears; she'd be proud of him and want him to be happy.
I could tell him those things and he'd agree, absolutely. But it wouldn't change how he feels, the ache in his heart, the catch in his throat, the tightening in his chest.
When we were growing up, if he wanted to know what something looked like -- the wind in the trees, the thunder in a storm, a stained-glass window at church, or the grease on his fingers from a leg of fried chicken -- I would try to find words to "picture" it for him.
I have no words to describe his grief. I cannot picture it for myself, let alone for him.
It is big, yes, and dark and scary. But that doesn't begin to do justice to what he feels.
It seems connected, as grief always is, to other losses he has suffered in recent years: His wife, the love of his life, and our stepfather, his best friend.
But as much as I try to make sense of it, and as much as I want to help him let go of it, I can't pry it out of his hands.
All I can do is sit beside him, long distance, and listen to the words he uses to try to tell me what's in his heart.
As his sister -- and as my mother's daughter --it is the most and the least I can do.
So on our mother's birthday, I called to let him say whatever he wanted to say, for as long as he wanted to say it.
Then I told him he is still her favorite, though he's hopelessly pigheaded. I said he doesn't have to be sad on her birthday; that he can honor her memory with laughter as well as tears; that she'd be proud of him and want him to be happy.
None of it helped.
Then, oh wait! There was one thing I could say to comfort my brother and ease his pain.
"It's football season," I told him. "Pretty soon you can pull for your Clemson Tigers."
"I know!" he hooted, "and there's a high-school game on the radio this Friday!"
I laughed, and whispered, "Happy birthday, Mama."
(Contact Sharon Randall at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson, NV 89077, or at www.sharonrandall.com.)
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