When I was just a young pup living in Los Angeles in 2001, I would go to his place in Burbank every Wednesday and we would talk about life, art, politics, love.
Sadly, this one is easy. My brother Aidan died two years ago at the age of 27. We were close. My mom used to joke that he was the male Jenna. I think she meant it a bit derogatorily (i.e., we were both clever in a devious way, able to talk our way in/out of situations), but we both wore our similarities as a badge of honor.
I’m going to cheat a bit here – the following is not new writing. It’s what I wrote for his eulogy.
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When Aidan was 2 years old (maybe even slightly younger), he and I were playing in the family room. Everything was calm and normal until one of my parents pulled up in the driveway and opened the garage door. Upon hearing the sound of the door starting to go up, Aidan’s head shot up like a meerkat and he took off at a full sprint, halfway across the house and through the garage, as fast as his tiny legs could take him. He made it just in time to grab the bottom of the garage door so he could ride it up. Panicked, I raced after him and managed to get to him just before the door made its way all to the top (although he fought me when I tried to pull him off).
Make no mistake: This was not a spontaneous act of rebellion – Aidan planned this. He wanted to know what it would be like to ride the garage door, and he just had to wait patiently for the perfect moment to arise. And when that moment came, he didn’t hesitate for a second. I could tell by the look of sheer joy on his face as he was riding the door up that all of his little toddler planning was worth it.
To me, this story perfectly encapsulates Aidan. He was fun. He was headstrong. He was diabolical. He was brave. He was smart. He looked for moments of joy in places others wouldn’t look. He could solve complex problems (in this case the problem was “how do I ride a garage door to glory?”). He was frustrating at times (although the most frustrating thing was that it was impossible to stay mad at him).
He was also kind. He was warm. He had an ability to see the best in everyone (a trait which seems almost impossible to the more cynical among us). Most of all, he was lovable. Everyone who knew him knew that about Aidan. He was easy to love, and quick to give love back.
Bridget, Made me cry...and I do not even know why. Beautifully written and deeply heartfelt. I have dealt with many deaths and nothing ever makes it better. But Hani (and Nut) live on in you -- and that is likely what eternity actually is. Thanks for this.
The honesty and balance you bring to your writing is directly proportional to Hani’s impact on you. Not just in this beautiful piece. In all of your work. I see it and hear it.
Hani’s ability to educate and mentor you through his words and actions altered the course of your life, and maybe dozens of other lives. Wow, what a legacy.
When you ask who do I miss the most? It has to be my maternal grandparents. I think of them everyday.
They used to watch me everyday after school. We became incredibly close, so, when they died - I was heartbroken.
When my grandfather died, my mom tells the the story, that I looked out the window and said, “I miss you, grandpa.”
When my grandmother passed, many years later, I sobbed for almost three months. Grief is weird and it never truly goes away.
I promised her that I would go to all the places that she never got to go. Mostly, Australia. I always keep my promises. There’s no one in the world that I could ever miss more.
I met Pat in Calicut, India, in the latter part of 2008. We had both traveled to Kerala to take our TESOL certification course. Pat was twice my age, and contrary to my lack of teaching experience, he had many years of running an early childhood center.
Along with a few other twenty-somethings, we started a six week course at a local school that had us teaching mock classes, drinking lots of overly sweet chai and religiously taking part in elevenses and afternoon tea.
On Friday nights we’d all convene at the one semi-interesting rooftop bar in the city, downing Kingfisher beers and singing songs before piling into auto-rickshaws headed for the hotel at the end of the night. I wince at it now, but we young’uns mocked Pat’s enthusiasm at first – his childlike classroom songs (which ironically, I am now well-versed in, having taught a range of early learners), the clean-cut parting and general affability.
After completion of the course, we headed to Goa for a couple of weeks of Western comforts and partying. I’ll never forget the day we were all at some hippy drum circle myself awkwardly at the edge, only to see Pat stroll into the middle, joint hanging out of his mouth, his head now buzzed, breaking into dance.
Over the following weeks, his demeanor changed drastically, and we started to learn a lot more about his life. Pat had encountered a lot of hardship and obstacles, and yet his sunny nature remained.
We did our TESOL placements in different parts of Kerala – I was teaching at a boarding school in a jungle village with a girl from New Zealand, he was teaching in a local high school in the nearby city of Tirur. I recall being invited along on a guys’ outing to procure the local toddy, which we all proceeded to drink on the banks of a river, before wading in to look at the water buffaloes.
Pat left India before I, wanting to visit his daughter in New York and celebrate his 50th there. I vividly remember his call from the Big Apple - ‘Mel - where are the cows?!!’ (cows were everywhere in India, you end up getting quite attached to their ambling presence).
Over the years I gradually lost touch with everyone I’d met in India... apart from Pat. When Mr. B and I moved back from China unexpectedly in 2016, with our first US stop being Seattle, Pat wanted to show us around. He had recently been given the all-clear from cancer and was now also tee-total. We spent a lovely day with Pat, and that was the last time I saw him. Over the years, he was increasingly political on Facebook, to the point where I silenced his feed. In doing so, I wasn’t aware of his daughter’s death by overdose until quite some time after it happened. I made sure after then, even with the political posts, I wouldn’t silence his feed again. Occasionally, I’d comment with a little (respectful) pushback, and get jumped on by his friends. He’d always tell them to leave me alone – I was his frie3nd, and it was OK that we disagreed.
Yikes! OK to disagree? Not a familiar concept in today’s climate, but there were were – polar opposites in a lot of ways, but very fond of one-another.
Pat died in August 2020. He informed everyone a couple of weeks before his death that he was on his way out. Facebook had inexplicably deactivated my account, but fortunately through Mr B, I received Pat’s message, and quickly created another, so we could converse a few times before his passing. I miss his optimism, and I often imagine that he had been able to visit us in Vietnam. He would have loved it, and I daresay I would looked on the country with brand new enthusiasm, just having him around.
I should be writing about my friend whose death was a Shakespeare tragedy or my father who I still haven't mourned. I will, in a time, write about my grandmother. But the people I miss most are still alive. They are just not the people they were, and it is all the pieces of that loss that I stumble over in the darkness.
In a recurring dream, I am waiting on an endless line of people. I'm looking for someone. It makes no sense, but dream realm is (almost like the 2020s) a accepted lunacy, and I'm crippled by a sense of loss. I woke up in the middle of this dream and thought, relieved, that I'd figured it out! I was looking for my husband. But he was right next to me...so...everything was OK. Except it wasn't.
It wasn't him I missed. It was 1994 him that I was looking for. And unless I find a flux capacitor, he's not coming back.
Nor are my babies. Even as I treasure getting to know them as adults, and re learning the choreography of our evolving relationships, oh, how I miss those sitting on the floor building train tracks and marble mazes days.
But even this is not the loss that I felt on line. It was not my husband I was seeking nor my children.
It is me.
I miss me.
There you go. An ode to the end of middle age, when you find that your biggest repurposing project isn't the empty glass jars or old IKEA bookcase, but yourself.
I lost myself in the juggling jobs and kids years. I lost the one job that was the magic sparkly glue that held everything together, one I carried like a jeweled ID card, a job that was a bridge from the dreams I began to realize in my 20s to the reality that enveloped me through the decades. I didn't realize how a simple byline was the eternity band keeping me bound to me.
There is pleasure in remembering, in giving the sorrow words, in looking at your life from the winter and missing the spring, knowing that the greatest distance in the world in between ourselves is now and one second ago.
Sadly, this one is easy. My brother Aidan died two years ago at the age of 27. We were close. My mom used to joke that he was the male Jenna. I think she meant it a bit derogatorily (i.e., we were both clever in a devious way, able to talk our way in/out of situations), but we both wore our similarities as a badge of honor.
I’m going to cheat a bit here – the following is not new writing. It’s what I wrote for his eulogy.
------------
When Aidan was 2 years old (maybe even slightly younger), he and I were playing in the family room. Everything was calm and normal until one of my parents pulled up in the driveway and opened the garage door. Upon hearing the sound of the door starting to go up, Aidan’s head shot up like a meerkat and he took off at a full sprint, halfway across the house and through the garage, as fast as his tiny legs could take him. He made it just in time to grab the bottom of the garage door so he could ride it up. Panicked, I raced after him and managed to get to him just before the door made its way all to the top (although he fought me when I tried to pull him off).
Make no mistake: This was not a spontaneous act of rebellion – Aidan planned this. He wanted to know what it would be like to ride the garage door, and he just had to wait patiently for the perfect moment to arise. And when that moment came, he didn’t hesitate for a second. I could tell by the look of sheer joy on his face as he was riding the door up that all of his little toddler planning was worth it.
To me, this story perfectly encapsulates Aidan. He was fun. He was headstrong. He was diabolical. He was brave. He was smart. He looked for moments of joy in places others wouldn’t look. He could solve complex problems (in this case the problem was “how do I ride a garage door to glory?”). He was frustrating at times (although the most frustrating thing was that it was impossible to stay mad at him).
He was also kind. He was warm. He had an ability to see the best in everyone (a trait which seems almost impossible to the more cynical among us). Most of all, he was lovable. Everyone who knew him knew that about Aidan. He was easy to love, and quick to give love back.
Bridget, Made me cry...and I do not even know why. Beautifully written and deeply heartfelt. I have dealt with many deaths and nothing ever makes it better. But Hani (and Nut) live on in you -- and that is likely what eternity actually is. Thanks for this.
(Now) I love Hani, too. Thanks for sharing him; so beautiful. 💜
Well I didn’t expect to cry first thing this morning but here I am.
The honesty and balance you bring to your writing is directly proportional to Hani’s impact on you. Not just in this beautiful piece. In all of your work. I see it and hear it.
Hani’s ability to educate and mentor you through his words and actions altered the course of your life, and maybe dozens of other lives. Wow, what a legacy.
When you ask who do I miss the most? It has to be my maternal grandparents. I think of them everyday.
They used to watch me everyday after school. We became incredibly close, so, when they died - I was heartbroken.
When my grandfather died, my mom tells the the story, that I looked out the window and said, “I miss you, grandpa.”
When my grandmother passed, many years later, I sobbed for almost three months. Grief is weird and it never truly goes away.
I promised her that I would go to all the places that she never got to go. Mostly, Australia. I always keep my promises. There’s no one in the world that I could ever miss more.
I’m crying as I write this…
Bridget, there are lots of writers. You’re an artist who paints with words instead of pigments and canvas.
I met Pat in Calicut, India, in the latter part of 2008. We had both traveled to Kerala to take our TESOL certification course. Pat was twice my age, and contrary to my lack of teaching experience, he had many years of running an early childhood center.
Along with a few other twenty-somethings, we started a six week course at a local school that had us teaching mock classes, drinking lots of overly sweet chai and religiously taking part in elevenses and afternoon tea.
On Friday nights we’d all convene at the one semi-interesting rooftop bar in the city, downing Kingfisher beers and singing songs before piling into auto-rickshaws headed for the hotel at the end of the night. I wince at it now, but we young’uns mocked Pat’s enthusiasm at first – his childlike classroom songs (which ironically, I am now well-versed in, having taught a range of early learners), the clean-cut parting and general affability.
After completion of the course, we headed to Goa for a couple of weeks of Western comforts and partying. I’ll never forget the day we were all at some hippy drum circle myself awkwardly at the edge, only to see Pat stroll into the middle, joint hanging out of his mouth, his head now buzzed, breaking into dance.
Over the following weeks, his demeanor changed drastically, and we started to learn a lot more about his life. Pat had encountered a lot of hardship and obstacles, and yet his sunny nature remained.
We did our TESOL placements in different parts of Kerala – I was teaching at a boarding school in a jungle village with a girl from New Zealand, he was teaching in a local high school in the nearby city of Tirur. I recall being invited along on a guys’ outing to procure the local toddy, which we all proceeded to drink on the banks of a river, before wading in to look at the water buffaloes.
Pat left India before I, wanting to visit his daughter in New York and celebrate his 50th there. I vividly remember his call from the Big Apple - ‘Mel - where are the cows?!!’ (cows were everywhere in India, you end up getting quite attached to their ambling presence).
Over the years I gradually lost touch with everyone I’d met in India... apart from Pat. When Mr. B and I moved back from China unexpectedly in 2016, with our first US stop being Seattle, Pat wanted to show us around. He had recently been given the all-clear from cancer and was now also tee-total. We spent a lovely day with Pat, and that was the last time I saw him. Over the years, he was increasingly political on Facebook, to the point where I silenced his feed. In doing so, I wasn’t aware of his daughter’s death by overdose until quite some time after it happened. I made sure after then, even with the political posts, I wouldn’t silence his feed again. Occasionally, I’d comment with a little (respectful) pushback, and get jumped on by his friends. He’d always tell them to leave me alone – I was his frie3nd, and it was OK that we disagreed.
Yikes! OK to disagree? Not a familiar concept in today’s climate, but there were were – polar opposites in a lot of ways, but very fond of one-another.
Pat died in August 2020. He informed everyone a couple of weeks before his death that he was on his way out. Facebook had inexplicably deactivated my account, but fortunately through Mr B, I received Pat’s message, and quickly created another, so we could converse a few times before his passing. I miss his optimism, and I often imagine that he had been able to visit us in Vietnam. He would have loved it, and I daresay I would looked on the country with brand new enthusiasm, just having him around.
I should be writing about my friend whose death was a Shakespeare tragedy or my father who I still haven't mourned. I will, in a time, write about my grandmother. But the people I miss most are still alive. They are just not the people they were, and it is all the pieces of that loss that I stumble over in the darkness.
In a recurring dream, I am waiting on an endless line of people. I'm looking for someone. It makes no sense, but dream realm is (almost like the 2020s) a accepted lunacy, and I'm crippled by a sense of loss. I woke up in the middle of this dream and thought, relieved, that I'd figured it out! I was looking for my husband. But he was right next to me...so...everything was OK. Except it wasn't.
It wasn't him I missed. It was 1994 him that I was looking for. And unless I find a flux capacitor, he's not coming back.
Nor are my babies. Even as I treasure getting to know them as adults, and re learning the choreography of our evolving relationships, oh, how I miss those sitting on the floor building train tracks and marble mazes days.
But even this is not the loss that I felt on line. It was not my husband I was seeking nor my children.
It is me.
I miss me.
There you go. An ode to the end of middle age, when you find that your biggest repurposing project isn't the empty glass jars or old IKEA bookcase, but yourself.
I lost myself in the juggling jobs and kids years. I lost the one job that was the magic sparkly glue that held everything together, one I carried like a jeweled ID card, a job that was a bridge from the dreams I began to realize in my 20s to the reality that enveloped me through the decades. I didn't realize how a simple byline was the eternity band keeping me bound to me.
There is pleasure in remembering, in giving the sorrow words, in looking at your life from the winter and missing the spring, knowing that the greatest distance in the world in between ourselves is now and one second ago.
What a rich and wonderful gift he was.