TheBanyanTree: To my brother

[Barb Edlen]

Indeed. He was so fortunate to have you. 

> ✿*ﾟ‘ﾟ･.｡.:*


> On Apr 7, 2019, at 6:54 PM, Laura Hicks <wolfljsh at gmail.com> wrote:
> 
> I think he was lucky to have you there for him.
> 
> Laura
> wolfljsh at gmail.com
> 
> On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 6:37 PM Monique Colver <monique.colver at gmail.com>
> wrote:
> 
>> I think my brother was lucky to survive his childhood.
>> 
>> Monique
>> Sent from my iPad
>> 
>>> On Apr 7, 2019, at 3:29 PM, Laura Hicks <wolfljsh at gmail.com> wrote:
>>> 
>>> Absolutely beautiful, Monique.
>>> 
>>> Laura
>>> wolfljsh at gmail.com
>>> 
>>> On Sun, Apr 7, 2019 at 5:50 PM Monique Colver <monique.colver at gmail.com>
>>> wrote:
>>> 
>>>> Writing things down in case I forget them and.
>>>> 
>>>> The day you were born I wasn't there, I was probably at home, where I
>>>> spent much of my time. Mom hated me hanging around the house so much, I
>> was
>>>> a constant thorn in her side. So she was there when you were born. I do
>>>> remember smuggling alcohol in to her. Dad said, "Put this under your
>>>> shirt," So I walked into the maternity ward looking like a 13 year old
>>>> slightly pregnant girl, the shaker under my shirt clinking with ice,
>>>> because gin and tonics needed to be served cold.
>>>> 
>>>> You were not breast fed.
>>>> 
>>>> Dad and I went into Mom's room and she was sitting up, looking her
>> normal
>>>> self, as if she hadn't recently pushed you out. The gin and tonic
>> helped I
>>>> think.
>>>> 
>>>> Next thing I knew, you were at home. There was one bedroom at the end of
>>>> the hallway that I'd previously shared with our sisters, but they were
>>>> moved out and on with their own adult lives. The room was long, and when
>>>> you moved in you got the half on the door side. A divider was put up in
>> the
>>>> middle of the room and I was on the other side. We each had a window,
>> but
>>>> my side was dark, just the right place for someone like me. Yours was
>>>> bright and smelled of baby powder.
>>>> 
>>>> One time I had you on the changing table, changing you. Your Mom was
>> out,
>>>> so I was in charge of you. The boys and Dad were all watching TV in the
>>>> family room. I turned to get something, a silly move on my part, and you
>>>> rolled over and fell on the floor. I was so upset! I'd rather bash my
>> own
>>>> head in. Dad came to check, but when I picked you up and put you back on
>>>> the table you acted as if nothing had happened.
>>>> 
>>>> It was my job to keep you safe, and change diapers, and feed you, and
>>>> entertain you, and I was very concerned about doing it all properly
>> because
>>>> I loved  this tiny creature so much. Sure, you had a Mom, but I was the
>>>> stand in.
>>>> 
>>>> When we moved to Hacienda Heights I had my own room, and you had to room
>>>> with someone else. I'd never minded rooming with you. We'd spend so much
>>>> time together anyway. I'd take you to pre-school, pick you up from
>>>> pre-school, take you to the store with me, entertain you while Mom
>> waan't
>>>> there. You were always asking me why. Why this, why that, why. So many
>>>> whys, and I didn't always have answers. But you forgave me.
>>>> 
>>>> I was there when you fell and hit the side of your head on the glass
>>>> coffee table, right next to your eye. Chaos ensued. Fortunately Mom was
>>>> there too, and we took you to the ER. She drove like a bat out of hell
>> and
>>>> I held you, compressing a towel against the cut. I don't remember you
>>>> crying, but you might have been. About forty years later I fell on my
>> face
>>>> and had a cut right next to my eye. I still have my scar, how about you?
>>>> 
>>>> I was there when Dad brought you home one day and said you'd fallen out
>> of
>>>> his truck when he was turning a corner. You were banged up, but just a
>>>> little, so we put bandaids on you because you demanded them. You lay on
>> the
>>>> couch and demanded canned mushrooms to help you recover from the
>> trauma. At
>>>> 4 maybe? Whatever you wanted, you got.
>>>> 
>>>> That was usually the way. You were the youngest, and you were, as far
>> as I
>>>> can remember, the best child ever.
>>>> 
>>>> I watched you learn to swim, I let your instructor in and after your
>>>> lessons I'd give him a beer while he hit on me.
>>>> 
>>>> One time I tried carrying too much down the stairs at once, and of those
>>>> things was you. I tripped and fell the rest of the way, and all I could
>>>> think to do was hold tight to you and keep any part of you hitting the
>>>> floor at the bottom of the stairs. I landed on my knees, and your Mom
>> was
>>>> right there, ready to kill me if you had as much as a scratch. But your
>>>> head was still against my chest , you were fine, and may have enjoyed
>> the
>>>> ride.
>>>> 
>>>> My knees never recovered, not really, especially the right one. It's
>> never
>>>> been the same, but it was a small price to pay to keep you safe.
>>>> 
>>>> We were careless with you in a way that isn't done anymore. You would
>> ride
>>>> in the car standing on the passenger seat from the time you could stand.
>>>> One day we in the car with Mom, the boys in the back seat, you and me in
>>>> the front with Mom driving, you standing between us as usual. Maybe you
>>>> were 4? We pulled into the driveway and Mom, one foot in a cast,
>>>> accidentally accelerated instead of braked, and the car went right
>> through
>>>> the garage door support between the garage doors. It all happened so
>> fast,
>>>> and my left arm went out to keep you from hurtling through the
>> windshield.
>>>> I'm sure Mom's right arm went out too, it's instinctual in moms to
>> protect
>>>> their babies.
>>>> 
>>>> When I moved out at 18 you were five, and you were the one I missed and
>>>> cried about for so long after. No one else really cared that I left ,
>> but
>>>> the way you'd greet me when I came back to visit and want to be with me,
>>>> even wanting to sleep with me, told me that you missed me too.
>>>> 
>>>> I have always been proud of you, and even if you don't remember all the
>>>> fun and terrifying times we had together I always will, until I remember
>>>> nothing at all.
>>>> 
>>>> 
>>>> Monique
>>>> Sent from my iPad
>>> 
>>> --
>>> Laura
>>> wolfljsh at gmail.com
>> 
> -- 
> Laura
> wolfljsh at gmail.com