A decade sounds like such a long time, when in fact, it is but a moment. A blink in this life we are here to live. I have taken so many decades for granted as I lived in the moments of them. I think you may have done that as well. When life is happening, it is hard to imagine it not happening in the same way, in perpetuity.
That thinking changed for me a full decade ago. It has been ten years. Ten years have gone by both quickly and slowly. Until I was 48, I believed you would tangibly, physically, be a part of my life forever. I took our phone calls for granted, even while I cherished every moment of them. I believed we would be visiting between St. Paul and Michigan each year until we could no longer travel. (I assumed you would stop traveling first because you hated flying and long car trips, both things I loved). I knew when you no longer were able or willing to make the trips here, I would come to you. I loved coming to the Twin Cities. It always felt like coming home. Maybe because it was your home, or more likely, because being together, being with you, felt like home to me.
People sometimes ask me how close in age we were, given our strong connection. When I tell them 7 years apart, they are often a bit confused. They can’t seem to imagine how a 7-year gap could foster a sibling relationship that flourished and just “clicked,” especially when I tell them about the time you put a live toad down my shirt, which created my irrational fear of the damn things even at 58! I don’t remember or know how you felt about me coming into our family. I don’t know if our bond began then for you. My earliest memory, which I mark as the foundation of our mutual admiration and connection, is you telling me a story of a boy who lived in a peach. A boy with 2 terrible aunts, Sponge and Spiker. You spun this captivating story as we traveled in the back of a Ford station wagon in the heat of the summer of 1969. We were on a family trip to California. That story, which you told bit by bit each day, held me spellbound for hours through the heat of the western deserts. I believed you were just making it up as you went. Imagine my surprise in 5th grade when my teacher read James and the Giant Peach aloud, and I realized you were a published author! Also, imagine how much of an idiot I was! But you told the story so well, from memory. I’m certain it was embellished, you knew how to tell a story and hold an audience. You held so many people captive with your storytelling during your too-short life. It’s no surprise that it is that part of you I often miss the most. Many who love you do.
These past 10 years have been challenging. It started with your passing. Biggy Munn and Mom both developed health issues. Caring for them was a gift. And it was hard. In all kinds of ways. You would have been very little physical help, but there were so many times I wished you were there to share the stories with me. They are both gone now. I hope you are all reunited in some glorious place where you and Mom can hunt for mushrooms and Dad can sit by and supervise. I hope the 3 of you are celebrating all of the good things that were part of this life and whatever it is you are experiencing now in this life in the after. That part is a mystery, driven by Hope.
There has also been so much joy these past 10 years. Those are the times and experiences that make me want to pick up the phone and share the details with you the most. The good stuff, that would make us both weep. There has been a marriage, and another to come. A new baby, who came with a bonus older brother. There are performances and pets aplenty. Our offspring are flourishing in so many different ways! You would be captivated by all of their journeys and experiences. The stories I want to share with you over beers and laughter could fill countless hours with joy! Sometimes I share them with you when I am driving alone in the car. I’m sure people think I’m nuts. Sometimes someone catches me talking to myself softly…..I don’t tell them I’m talking to the dead; that would confirm their assumptions.
As I look ahead to another 10 years without you, and I think, you will never be truly gone from me. I carry you with me wherever I go. I see things, both magnificent and small, and imagine how you would marvel at them. I spend time with my kids and yours and imagine how much joy you would find in those moments and mischief. I speak of you often, gently, with an understanding of you that I didn’t fully possess when you were here.
I miss you, my brother. Tom. Milton Chesmo. The Grand Man of Grand Avenue, with an ache that I cannot fully put into words, though I try with every year that passes. You are still loved, still a part of us, and still present in so many ways that matter. My memories of you remind me to live fully in the moments, with each passing day…because the decades will be gone too swiftly and contain so much that is important for others to remember.
Too soon and too quickly.
