A year ago today I received an enigmatic message from my sister - Call me when you get home. Not before.
I didn't listen. She left the message in the middle of my shift and curiosity was creeping hard. Thoughts of my mom, my nephews, her, her husband - all several states away - flitted through my mind all afternoon.
Jumping in my car I headed out, dialing her number even as I put the key into the ignition.
I was two blocks down the road when she sternly told me to call when I got home. Stubbornness set it and I refused to hang up, electing to pull off into a church parking lot just down the road.
Her pronouncement was visceral - a sledge hammer to my chest, a Louisville slugger to the gut.
My mom was ok. And the boys too. She and her husband just returned from their anniversary trip running snowsleds up North.
My world shook. No - shattered. I could barely breathe as she wept in my ear. The phone slipped form my clenching fists and I scrambled to pick it back up.
No. NO. I just talked with him this morning. He sent me a text before lunch!
She waited with me to pull myself together. An eternity.
The only other time I had felt this was years before when my mom called me at work. My father had passed and... I finished out the day doing mindless work, focusing on the itty bitty pieces of my job rather than giving in to pain, the black.
After an immeasurable time, I steeled myself. Holding everything like a solider hugging a grenade about to explode.
I don't remember getting home. I remember rain drops on the windshield, maybe tears, and darkness. It was late evening and the sun had already set behind what looked like piles of ash.
Pulling into the drive, I wheeled the car to a stop, as usual. And waited. My knees shook so I could barely stand.
Breath after deep labored breath until the tremors eased. I didn't dare close my eyes. Didn't dare look at my phone.
I fumbled through the lock, pushed open the door, still holding it together.
My wife and kids sat along the couch, reading, playing. One look from her and the question - what's wrong? and the floor hit me hard in the knees.
Everything, I wanted to scream. I tried, tried hard but choked, choked on the grief. I was barely able to mumble out the words.
My bucket list is short. On it are a handful of things. Hunting big horns out West is on that list. Visiting Ireland with my wife like we hoped we could when we were first married. Not many things.
But hunting with my brother was on that list. Him and I stalking through the woods like we did when we were kids, but with real purpose and real rewards. I reside in the midWest and he midAtlantic. Once a year we would meet with my uncle, more a big brother than an uncle, and camp. Sometimes roughing it, sometimes "glaming" it, perusing the sights of Kentucky and Tennessee.
We all have an admiration for guns. And maybe my love of hunting was flowing over to him. We discussed it on multiple occasions and at one point our annual trip was leaning in that direction but life doesn't always cooperate.
Still, it's been a full year and while the initial anguish has dulled, the agony is arthritic. It will be year since his memorial in a week or so. And that will be a bitter-sweet memory.
Out of tragedy some of the most beautiful things grow. I lost one brother and gained two more through my nephews-in-law. We've held to keeping in touch, although sometimes it seems ages before we catch up. But I know they are there - a call, a text. A thought apart - they'll get it. We kept that tradition of camping but as our lives continue to move forward and families do what they ought - grow - we have to adjust to the new.
But one thing is certain, my bucket is a little emptier now, a little lighter. Maybe I could change that, add something new. But for now, I can't bring myself to fill that empty space. Wounds heal with time they say. But no wound is as deep as the loss of kin. And nothing you pack it with will ever let you forget.
He'll never read this as I write it on this earth. But that's ok. He doesn't need to. It's enough.
It is enough.
