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We all have things in our lives we regret—grief and losses that weigh us down. My brother Grady's death is one such grief for me. He has been dead for 17 years, but it's a rare day I don't think about him, remember something from our childhood when he was the boy who loved me best. He was big brother to me, but often played the father role as well. 

He was the one who took off the training wheels and ran along side my wobbly bicycle as I learned to ride. (As many of you know from my earlier blogs, our father was crippled by a grenade during WWII) It was Grady who tightened my roller skates with a key he kept on a string around his neck, taught me how to climb trees and shoot a Beebe gun. In the third grade, Grady took me to my first, and only father/daughter dance. I was so proud of my handsome, big brother. After dinner, when weather permitted, we played outdoors with the neighborhood kids until the street lights came on and told us it was time to go home. 

On warm summer evenings, after we’d had our baths and were dressed in pajamas, our mother would sometimes spread a quilt on the grass in the backyard. Grady and I would sprawl out on our backs and look up at the stars. He’d point out the big dipper, but I couldn't see what he saw. He told me to connect the stars with an imaginary line, like in the connect- the-dots books that entertained us on rainy days. And it worked--I saw the big dipper for the first time. 

It was also Grady who helped me move into my dorm room and later my first apartment. He used to visit me at the University of Delaware and take me out for dinner. What do I regret? My beautiful brother gained an enormous amount of weight as a middle-aged adult. He became so heavy it was hard for me to look at him. I never, not once, stopped loving him, but I did stop looking at him. And I'm deeply ashamed of that. Beneath the weight, my brother was still there.  And all I needed to do was look into his eyes to find him.  I miss him so much. Each spring when the forsythia bloom, I look at those clusters of yellow blossoms and think of him.  


There are no streetlights in my neighborhood now. But when night falls, I often look up into the star-studded sky and imagine him there, gathering the dust and sprinkling it on the people he loves. It took many years for me to write a poem about the day he died.  I will share a portion of it with you—the part where, by the magic or poetry, he is brought back to life. Ironically, I wrote it on the 17th anniversary of his death. It came pouring out of me, as if it had been inside all along, just waiting to be seen. 

In the photograph that precedes it, I am three years old and Grady is six. He was a beautiful boy. Adored by his little sister. And now that he is gone, I wish I'd loved him better--especially at the end when it would have mattered so much to him.  He loved his family and his church. When he was mobile, he was the first one to offer help to others.  And when he was no longer able to move around so easily, he had a telephone ministry with those who were in need of a gentle giant with a sympathetic ear.

My big brother taught me many things in life. In death he taught me to always remember love is so much bigger than embarrassment or shame. None of us are perfect. And maybe it is the imperfect who are the truly beautiful people--the real heroes among us.


Picture















THIS WEIGHT I CARRY

On the March day my brother’s big heart
stopped beating, forsythia burst into 
yellow blossoms outside his bedroom window
and one crocus opened its purple-petaled eye. 
Each blade of grass seemed numbered as it bent 
beneath black boots that marched him across his yard.
Neighbors spoke in soft whispers, 
clutched Bibles fat with mercy for their home-bound
church brother. As his body was taken away,
they hung their heads, then hurried home 
to bake him chocolate cakes and casseroles.  
How easy it is to love what is gone.

As minutes tick back into memory, I disassemble 
my big brother and me. Break us apart like 
pieces of a gigantic puzzle, fragments of love 
stronger than obsession, fear or shame.
When I connect them to the place fantasy and longing merge, 
we will stretch our arms, weightless as wings, and fly. 
Together we’ll wade barefoot in the shallow creek 
behind our house in Collins Park, listen to our mother
sing hymns in the garden while sun dries our mud pies 
on the flat rocks. We’ll hold our funeral processions 
for dead birds, oatmeal-box coffins lined with
fragrant orange peels that linger on our fingertips.
The ebony trill of my clarinet in the summer air. 

Susan Clayton-Goldner