From the Bench
GOODBYE, LITTLE BRO
Spring slipped in during the wee hours of morning as I write this. The clouds hang over north Georgia’s first day of spring, and today they are heavier than usual. Yesterday morning, as winter began to exit the calendar, my brother Bill slipped away. He was 76.
We were "little bro" to each other, always referring to our older brother as "big bro." Now he and I are all that is left to share the special memories that only brothers can experience.
Bill and I had spent a lot of time over the past ten years doing just that. At least once a week, the line between north Georgia and Chattanooga was tied up for at least an hour.
A THREE-DAY INTERLUDE
It is now Tuesday, and I am again trying to write this. Saturday was just too soon.
Unfortunately, there is one good thing about funerals that only funerals seem to accomplish. They bring family and friends back together.
That is sad. Perhaps it says something about the way we live that needs to be said. Our every-day priorities seem to be out of whack. Sometimes the same can be said of our relationships.
Why does death accomplish what life cannot? What is it that brings us together? Just respect, or the thing we "ought to do?" Some of that, I guess.
Renewing acquaintances? Perhaps.
Reviving memories? Probably
Letting people know we care about them?
There was a lot of that this weekend. That was the most important. Love. Not the academic love that comes from a Sunday school lesson or a book, but what comes from a saddened face, a strong hug, and a soft word.
That is what we needed. And it was there.
We still need it. All of us. Every day.
Too bad it takes a funeral.
Something is out of whack.
At least, maybe a funeral will remind us. Maybe it will make some of us work at it a little more.
Meanwhile, goodbye little bro. You won’t get to read this one and send an email telling me what a great writer I am.
I’ll miss that. But who knows, maybe you are reading it. That would make me work harder for your approval.
I hope it’s a 10. You deserve no less.