One of the few benefits of my
mature age is the frequent once
upon a time conjured up shared
family memories, mused and
relived with my only brother.
Childish petty differences and
feelings of competition long ago
dead, replaced by the intimacy
of mutual respect and brotherhood.
Colorful recollections of our old
homestead, with all it's good hiding
places, the towering oak in the front
yard with its huge limbs for climbing,
the tire swing on a rope, and the time
I fell out of it and broke my ribs.
The tree house retreat we banged
together with scrap lumber, that
collapsed in the big storm of '57.
The first girls we both kissed and
all the ones we missed.
Our shaded front porch, mom's cold
lemonade on hot summer days, old
dog Dusty, what a good boy he was.
How he would fetch anything we tossed,
for as long as we would throw it.
Whispered bedroom secrets in the still of
night that only we two knew and shared.
Brussels sprouts clandestinely passed to
old Dusty under the dinner table, that mom
never appeared to notice. But the old man
knew, never said a word. As a kid he must
have had a good old dog too, or perhaps he
also hated Brussel sprouts.
Now living 600 miles apart, it is frequent
phone calls at all hours, with new/old
recollection to share, smile and even shed
a tear or two over, things only we are privy
to, for as long as we are both still living with
the ability to recall and remember.
For my brother Phil with love.
Our siblings are the only other people in the world
that share our collective memories, or care to help
us to relive them, a bond shared with no one else.
A thing to foster and enjoy while we can.
Our mother did wonder about Dusty's stinky
gas passing now and then, but never put it all
together. . . Brussel sprouts will do that to you.