It should be easy to write about meeting my brother.
It’s merely a matter of sitting in front of a keyboard and pressing one key after another, writing events as they happened, bringing it to life on the page, the emotions of the day.
It should be fun to talk about how handsome he looked, standing, waiting for his bride. I could note how fine the weather was, how perfectly rustic the small island setting. How incredibly beautiful and sweet the bride was.
I could tell you that funny story about how we ended up in Missouri and had to turn around and barely made it to the wedding on time. The beautiful backroads of Arkansas.
I have quite a lot to say about the odd little town of Eureka Springs. I’ve never experienced a place like that. If you find yourself driving on those small narrow roads, stop and eat at Ermilios, it’s worth the hour-long wait. Down on the main drag, the Local Flavour was hands down my favorite.
I need to talk about meeting the woman who pieced my story together. The one who knew the players and zeroed in on mom long before anyone was ready to admit it. She brought me a picture of my grandparents taken three weeks before I was born and also a new photograph of my mom with her handwriting on the back. She saved the day at the wedding, tracking down my cousin and his wife and introducing us. After we had been talking for a good thirty or more minutes, it was my cousin’s wife who tracked down my brother to bring him over for pictures.
It’s a blur, still all a blur.
He was charming and gracious. In retrospect, his wedding day probably wasn’t the day to show up. Then again, maybe it was the perfect day, he was busy, and I wanted to hide.
Remember all those years ago when I blogged on Me and Richard? When I talked about wanting to be seen, wanting to live? Guess what, it’s exhausting.
It’s exhausting to be alive, to be in the game, to be part of the play. It’s hard to translate fifty years of mixed emotions facing down someone angrier with your mother than you are.