Today is my brother George’s birthday. My brother who died eight years ago. My brother who was three years older than me and was my closest friend from birth. The first person I adored with all of my heart. When I was little he would ask me to go upstairs and get his shoes and I’d say to myself as I scurried away, “George wants me to get his shoes!” As if that was the very best thing ever. I remember sitting on our back staircase and looking out the little round window, waiting for George to come home from school. I must have been five and he was eight. Oh, what happiness when I saw him ride up on his bicycle. Down the stairs I ran and out the back door to see my big brother. And he always seemed happy to see me, too. At least until he got to be a teenager and his little sister was still trying to hang around with him and his friends. At that point, he pulled me aside and said, “Len, I’m bigger now. You need to go play with friends your age.” I was crushed. What? My big brother didn’t want me around? How could that happen? He was my best friend!
As we grew older, George and I grew apart. He started drinking more and more and alcohol got in the way of our being close. Twenty years passed and though I loved him and I knew he loved me, I was aware that his heart and mind were somewhere else. Until the day he stopped drinking and there he was again. My big brother, looking at me as if not one day had passed since we’d jumped on our bikes and ridden down 9th Street together to go play at Fort Inglish.
George never drank again once he gave alcohol up. And he never again was far away from me in mind and spirit. He was my cohort, my comrade, my best and dearest friend. And I am not the only person who felt that way about him. In fact, I can think of two or three people without much effort who felt he was their best friend, too. And he was. He had a way of giving that made it possible for you to feel extra special. That’s a wonderful quality to have.
When he received his terminal cancer diagnosis, he called to tell me. After I hung up the phone, I curled up in my bed and sobbed and sobbed. How, oh how, would I ever make it through life without my brother there to guide me? How could I face everyday without my rock – my George – to count on? I believe that was one of the loneliest feelings I’ve ever had. Knowing in that moment that we had a limited amount of time together and then he’d be gone.
He died 17 months later and during that time I communicated with him almost every day either by email or phone. I saw him as much as I could given that I was in California and he was in Texas. And then the night came when he called and said, “This is good-bye.” I stood in my kitchen and heard his weak voice. “Wait for me,” I said. “I’ll be there in the morning.” My husband had me on a red-eye to Texas within hours and I rented a car in the pre-dawn hours and drove through the Texas countryside as the sun came up. I arrived in time to see George – very frail – sitting on the side of his bed with his wife Sandra sitting beside him, her arm around his shoulders. He smiled when I walked in. “Len, is that you?”
George died later that day, but he did wait for me. I knew he would and he did. I think he’ll be the first to greet me in heaven one of these days, if all goes well…
I’m lucky to have had a brother like George. Such a good man. So solid. So real. So genuinely kind.
Happy birthday, brother. I carry you with me every day. And for that, I’m grateful and glad.
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