My siblings and I try to get together once a month for lunch. We have done this for years. No one else is invited, just the siblings—except every once in a while when a random cousin pops in. When my mom was alive, it drove her crazy because she thought we spent the whole time talking about her, but little did she know we spent the whole time talking about ourselves.
Since John and Tim had the nerve to die, our sibling lunch has been a little weird. Tim and John listened more than they spoke, so now the remaining four of us have to fight for attention. There’s also the matter of the check, which we take turns paying. It used to be a twice-a-year deal for me. Now, it’s three. Not a big deal really, but it is another reminder that we lost part of our band.
Dennis, Mike, Teresa and I were at Farotto’s in Rock Hill last week. It had been a while since we’d seen each other so we had plenty to catch up on. While there, we ran into one of Tim’s old friends. After a nice long lunch, it was time for Mike to pay, but the server asked us if we had ever heard of a free lunch? Since we’re such a positive bunch, all of us replied, “There is no such thing as a free lunch.” I think our ability to all speak at the same time startled the poor server, and he quickly told us our lunch had been paid for. Being the smart crew that we are, we looked around the place—me for the cameras in case we were on a TV show, everyone else to see who could have possibly wanted to pay for our lunch. Mike spotted Tim’s friend. Tim managed to take his turn paying for lunch, and he wasn’t even there! He’s always been a class act. I wish I could remember Tim’s friend’s name, but if you read this, you’re a class act, too, and made four people very happy.
This got me thinking about my brother John and the fact that we are coming up on the first anniversary of his death. Everyone talks about the five-stages of grief, but I have no idea what they are because I am still stuck in anger. I needed to go have a chat with John out at Jefferson Barracks. For those who have never been to the cemetery, it is beautiful in its simplicity. All the headstones are the same. It took me 30 minutes to find John, but there he was right next to two other veterans who served during Vietnam. I’d never visited a grave before, so I wasn’t sure of the rules. I just sat down and started talking. It was actually a lot like most conversations with John—I talked; he listened. I took his silence as agreement. I felt better, still angry but somehow not bitter. Next time, I will bring a lawn chair because I got grass stains on my jeans like a little kid playing outside.
I miss my big brothers. But somehow, they still show up when I need them the most. That’s what big brothers are supposed to do. Peace my Peeps.