My Cousin In Autumn

My Cousin

This morning I read, "God gives us memories so we may have roses in December." -- James M. Barrie.

We would have forced a get-together somehow. A football game usually, or dinner at your place -- something. Telephone calls weren't great. What went on between us wasn't built on words. It was time together.

Fall brings us back.

It's like you're waiting outside and I'm in the house, assuring my wife that we're going to be fine at the game as she looks on skeptically. We sometimes weren't, but you know that.

I took my assigned job making sub sandwiches seriously, and you never failed to compliment. The long rides in the car added rich presence that I did not grasp, but knew mattered. I know now how much. We sat in silence or talked family and politics. Self-assured, we discussed behaviors we hadn't a clue about.

Our seats were usually in the nose-bleeds in the September sun. In Ocotber and November we basked in the gorgeous weather, or huddled in the wind, or soaked in the rain. The December cold left us chattering and loud with complaint.

You'd elbow me when your guys scored, or mutter, "Heh, heh, heh," when my man dropped a pass. I pretended to ignore you as I roiled. On the long walks from the stadium to the car when my guys lost (often) you never needled me. You knew I loathed trash talk. When your guys lost (rarely) I smiled and you reminded me not to get my hopes up: "You're going nowhere this year. They'll break your heart!"
 
One year I could barely walk, but we went. Another time you rested too often so you might catch your breath and I worried. Still we went and didn't speak of impediments.

What I took from you over time was brotherly love, and more; we were boyhood chums. I knew it was your gift to me, as it was mine to you. We didn't talk about that either.

I'm convinced that you return each fall to remind me. But these days I can't touch the sensory experiences with you gone--the aromas, tastes, sights, presence -- like roses without scent. Love's still there. But memory enables enough remembrance as you continue to own me in autumn.