Jim, Can You Hear Me?

(This week was my brother's birthday. This is for him.)

The weeks have scurried on and turned into months now

and still you are gone, but, here as well.

There are remembrances of you,

photos, emails, and memorials, both small

and large.

Your voice is in my memory and now and then

I hear you speak, recalling old phone conversations where

together we cursed politicians, phony preachers, a sleeping

church, and, where we replayed the last major golf tournament,

Tiger’s life collapse, Phil’s implausible shot, Rory’s power swing,

and Spieth’s relentless grit and skills.

We grieved Mom’s difficult life, Dad’s mysterious remoteness, and our own

flaws and foibles and foolishness.

And, there is your laughter, still floating in my

consciousness; a laugh that drew you up, shoulders raised, head

lifted, eyes closed, a sort of breathless moment of immobility,

slow motion seconds of you drinking in great gobs of elation and

jubilance ending in coughing spells and tears.

You had substantial years of joy and love and fulfillment. There

was a wife, and beautiful children, and towards the end, grandchildren,

who made you nervous because you felt so lousy, but whom you

cherished and must have in your quiet moments wished you could

show them how much.

There was a career, a purpose; there were achievements

and your presence left in the hearts of others.

After your funeral—in the church hallways, at the cemetery, in cars

taking people to their homes—your name was spoken in reverence, with affection from old classmates, from lifelong friends, from church members,

and from your family, our hearts heavy with your absence.

Later in the evening, a small crew of us who knew you best and loved

you most celebrated you with food and drinks. You were remembered

over and again; we laughed; we cried; we honored you and gave thanks.

You would have scolded our over indulgences, as was your way. But you

would have laughed along with us without hesitation; you would have

cried too, and on the lounge chairs where we sat you would have reached

over to hug us one by one.

Even now, I feel that embrace and all is well.

The Unclad Soul