Some time ago I read, "God gives us memories so we may have roses in December." -- James M. Barrie.
You and I would have forced a get-together somehow. A football game usually, or dinner at your place—something. Telephone calls weren't great. Awkward. What went on between us wasn't built on words. It was time together – our times together.
A weekend in fall was such a time.
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 Pats’-Jets’ game; she looks on, skeptically. We sometimes weren't fine, but you know that.
I took my assigned job making sub sandwiches seriously, and you never failed to compliment.
Long rides in the car added a richness, a presence that I did not grasp, but sensed mattered. I know now how much. We sat in silence or talked family and politics.
Self-assured, we discussed behaviors and controls we hadn't a clue about.
Our seats were usually in the nose-bleeds in the September sun. In October 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 you’d mutter, "Heh, heh, heh," when my man dropped a pass. I pretended to ignore you, though my mind roiled.
On the long walks from the stadium to the car when my guys lost (too frequently), you never needled me. You knew I disliked 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 from the car to the stadium, but you slowed and we managed. Another time you rested too often so you might catch your breath and I worried, and waited.
Still we went and didn't speak of impediments.
What I took from you over time was brotherly love, and more. We were chums. I knew it was your gift to me and mine to you. We didn't talk about that either.
Over the years since you left you return as palpably as ever each fall. But these days I can't touch the sensory of you -- the aromas, tastes, sights, presence -- like roses without fragrance.
But the love's still there. Memory enables enough remembrance and you continue to own me, as though you never left, in autumn.
