June Changes

“What age would you stop them?” This was the question my mother asked me when I told her how I wish my children could stay little longer. She was trying to get me past my narrow view to look at the bigger picture. If it were it in my power to hold back time what would I have deprived my children from –  walking, talking, reading, learning, growing, graduating, marrying, or having their own children?

Certainly none of those, even so I think there might be something wrong with me. Whereas June is the time of celebration with graduations and weddings, I find myself thinking of the looming future and the inevitable good-byes; the comings and the goings. So, in addition to the wishes of well and good fortune, I seek out the parents to compare notes and see how they are doing with all this change going on around them.

Normally, everyone is happy with the day and the promises of tomorrow; usually the men are tougher than me and it’s the mothers who feel the empty arms. I’m not trying to be a kill-joy, but I simply cannot help but consider the cause-and-effect relationship between such significant events and the changes that are certain to follow. So, I check with others to see if I am the only one with the tear behind the smile.  Misery does indeed love company.

Now being several pages past high school and college graduations, one wedding and the arrival of a charming grandson, I can say with confidence that I survived the upheaval, and it was all for the good and necessary for the march to continue. But for some, the month of June marks the end rather than a beginning.

One year ago my brother, Dan, died on the fourth of June. I couldn’t stop that from happening either, and I find no joy or happiness in that good-bye. Still, I am expected to let time march-on, to move-on, and not dwell-on the sadness of change and loss. So when I think of Dan I try not to be angry with his early exit.

It feels much better instead to smile when I hear a song that reminds me of him, or to hear myself saying something that could easily have come from his mouth instead of mine.  As brothers who were close in age (and closer now every day) similarities in appearance are expected, yet it’s a bit shocking, however, to look in the in the mirror and see Dan shaking his at me and calling me “Kook.”

It’s early on Sunday, a day he liked to sleep in. The sun has nudged its way past the trees to the window at my writing table. As I try and avoid its glare, I see the mist rising from the roof below my window and think of how Dan would have found beauty in such a moment if only he had gotten out of bed; if only he hadn’t died.

I no longer have the impulse to call or write him, but every day I think of him. I just wish his life had not stopped at the age of 57.