Reverb 10 Prompt (from Karen Walrond): Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
I’m going to make and end run around this one. I’ve finally come to grips with the fact that I’m not different, not special, and not deserving of the credit for the vast majority of my better qualities and accomplishments. Karen’s reflection is a worthy one, but when I think “Beautifully Different,” my mind goes right to my little brother, and I’d like it to stay there a while longer. Saturday marked the six year anniversary of his death. I hadn’t thought about it until last night, as I was trying to settle into sleep.
As a ten year old, I was thrilled at the prospect of a little brother. I already had an older one, who teased and beat me up a lot, as well as a little sister, whom I teased and beat up a lot. A little brother would be a chance to form a new alliance, to be looked upon as a hero, worshiped like a God. Six months after Jimmy was born, he had a frightening reaction immediately following a vaccination injection. He screamed and cried and then went into a seizure. That morning, before the trip to the doctor’s office, he was developing quite normally, rolling around on the floor and playing with his Fisher-Price key ring. Twenty-five years later, the day before he passed away, he was still rolling around on the floor, playing with his Fisher-Price key ring. And pooping his diapers. And being fed and bathed by Mommy and Daddy. And not walking or talking or even looking people in the eyes. He was different for sure. Essentially, he never developed, cognitively, beyond six months. As you can imagine, it was quite a challenge for our family — especially my parents — to come to grips with. And yet, despite the hardships involved, this kid was like a little Buddha. We all loved him “more than tongue can tell,” as my Irish Grandmother used to say.
It’s hard for me to describe the bond I felt with Jimmy. He didn’t exactly return my affection. He didn’t like to cuddle, or be held at all really, and only occasionally would he flash me a smile. In fact, most of the time he wouldn’t react or respond to anything I said or did. And yet… I have never loved anyone, nor can I imagine ever loving anyone, the way I loved that kid. He never once rejected me or did me an ounce of harm. He was absolutely and perfectly innocent. I could love him fully and unconditionally, without issues or reactions or judgments or any obstructions whatsoever. What a gift!
Yeah, Jimmy was different. He most definitely didn’t turn out like we’d expected. But his life (and death) brought the rest of us closer together. I absolutely adored that kid, my little Buddha Bear, and he was beautiful. Beautiful. I kissed those cheeks a million times in those twenty-five years. You are missed little brother…
