Writer's Block: Time Travel
Yet another "Writer's Block" - but apt.
If you could travel back in time to spend a day with someone, who would it be and why?
Well, that's an easy one, right now: my beloved brother Brad, who died eighteen days ago. We lived on separate continents, most of our adult lives, so we didn't often see each other. (He never visited me in Australia or Israel.) But we always felt close to one another, and we always communicated easily, whether in person, or on the phone, or by e-mail.
I was on my annual visit to Denver (my hometown) when he died, and I at least got to see him once more, a week before. He took the bus down from Boulder (he moved back there a couple years ago; it's where he got his degree, from CU), and we met in downtown Denver. We talked for a couple hours, and it was wonderful. (I hadn't seen him in person since last year's visit.) The plan was that he'd come back to the apartment with me, and I'd make lunch for him and my son Sam, and we'd spend the afternoon together. But that fell through because he had a job interview in Boulder that afternoon. We went together to the bus station, and I waved goodbye to him as he left. We'd shown one another the pictures in our digital cameras, but I didn't take a picture of him. I don't know why I didn't; I so wish I had.
When he got to the place in Boulder for the interview, the guy told him that he was really busy and to come back on Saturday. That was frustrating enough, but then -- well, here's what Brad wrote me on Sunday:
"After all that B.S. - He called me on the phone to cancel the whole meeting that was changed today (just delay tactics I'd imagine now), and told me that he'd already hired the person that he needed (verified by me calling & getting the employee). He's an older guy, not a student, so there'd not be something once school starts. I suppose it's a mixed blessing since I'll be moving to Denver anyway - but, damn."
I'm unreasonably angry at that jerk (for all that I'll never know who he is). Not only did Brad's rushing back to Boulder for him take most of the time away from my last visit, but it meant that Sam didn't get to see Brad at all. Sam's eleven, and he hadn't seen Brad for a long time (since he missed his visit last year); he doesn't remember him very well. Brad's death has hit Sam hard, and maybe it would have been harder if he had clear, recent memories of his uncle -- but nonetheless, I wish he had them.
I suppose that there's no such thing as "enough" time with those we love, but it sure seems as though I had far too little with Brad. (He had MS, but statistics say that shortens one's lifespan only about five years, on average. I didn't expect to lose him so soon; he was only 38.) But also, how often do we think, when we're with someone, that it might be our last opportunity? If I had another day to spend with Brad, I don't know but that I'd like to know it was the last one; I'd value every moment even more, and I'd try to say all the hard-to-articulate things we so often put off saying until it's too late.
One last thing: a common form of address here in Israel is "achi" - it means literally "my brother". It's something that men call each other, even men who don’t know each other; it's sort of like calling someone "buddy" in English. I was reflecting that no one will ever call me sister again, as Brad was my only sibling. (We'd called each other "Bro" and "Sis" for many years.) Well, I took a taxi home from work, and the taxi driver -- a friendly, chatty guy -- wished me well as I got out of the cab, and he called me "my sister". (That's not common, and no one had ever called me that before.) 'Made me cry a little, after he drove away.
If you could travel back in time to spend a day with someone, who would it be and why?
Well, that's an easy one, right now: my beloved brother Brad, who died eighteen days ago. We lived on separate continents, most of our adult lives, so we didn't often see each other. (He never visited me in Australia or Israel.) But we always felt close to one another, and we always communicated easily, whether in person, or on the phone, or by e-mail.
I was on my annual visit to Denver (my hometown) when he died, and I at least got to see him once more, a week before. He took the bus down from Boulder (he moved back there a couple years ago; it's where he got his degree, from CU), and we met in downtown Denver. We talked for a couple hours, and it was wonderful. (I hadn't seen him in person since last year's visit.) The plan was that he'd come back to the apartment with me, and I'd make lunch for him and my son Sam, and we'd spend the afternoon together. But that fell through because he had a job interview in Boulder that afternoon. We went together to the bus station, and I waved goodbye to him as he left. We'd shown one another the pictures in our digital cameras, but I didn't take a picture of him. I don't know why I didn't; I so wish I had.
When he got to the place in Boulder for the interview, the guy told him that he was really busy and to come back on Saturday. That was frustrating enough, but then -- well, here's what Brad wrote me on Sunday:
"After all that B.S. - He called me on the phone to cancel the whole meeting that was changed today (just delay tactics I'd imagine now), and told me that he'd already hired the person that he needed (verified by me calling & getting the employee). He's an older guy, not a student, so there'd not be something once school starts. I suppose it's a mixed blessing since I'll be moving to Denver anyway - but, damn."
I'm unreasonably angry at that jerk (for all that I'll never know who he is). Not only did Brad's rushing back to Boulder for him take most of the time away from my last visit, but it meant that Sam didn't get to see Brad at all. Sam's eleven, and he hadn't seen Brad for a long time (since he missed his visit last year); he doesn't remember him very well. Brad's death has hit Sam hard, and maybe it would have been harder if he had clear, recent memories of his uncle -- but nonetheless, I wish he had them.
I suppose that there's no such thing as "enough" time with those we love, but it sure seems as though I had far too little with Brad. (He had MS, but statistics say that shortens one's lifespan only about five years, on average. I didn't expect to lose him so soon; he was only 38.) But also, how often do we think, when we're with someone, that it might be our last opportunity? If I had another day to spend with Brad, I don't know but that I'd like to know it was the last one; I'd value every moment even more, and I'd try to say all the hard-to-articulate things we so often put off saying until it's too late.
One last thing: a common form of address here in Israel is "achi" - it means literally "my brother". It's something that men call each other, even men who don’t know each other; it's sort of like calling someone "buddy" in English. I was reflecting that no one will ever call me sister again, as Brad was my only sibling. (We'd called each other "Bro" and "Sis" for many years.) Well, I took a taxi home from work, and the taxi driver -- a friendly, chatty guy -- wished me well as I got out of the cab, and he called me "my sister". (That's not common, and no one had ever called me that before.) 'Made me cry a little, after he drove away.