Memories of My Brother

Ever since we were young boys growing up in our house on 121 Street, my brother Jack and I were thick as thieves. We played together and went to the same schools together. We were rarely seen apart. Our parents would often dress us up similarly. It's no wonder my aunt Paula always got our names mixed up. 

One of our childhood games was called "Johnny Rebel". It was a take on Hide & Seek. However, our version involved the entire neighborhood and many of the people who lived there. Jack was a "Union" officer and I was an escaped "Rebel" soldier who he needed to find. I hid anywhere on our block, you name it and I hid there—in garages, under cars, or in our neighbor's basement. But he always found me.

Jack was also a cop. And thanks to our next door neighbor, Mrs. Dillon, he dressed the part. She sewed an entire policeman's uniform from scratch which he wore as he rode the police cart our grandfather got him.

He could do no wrong as fas as she was concerned. She never complained when he tossed a basketball that inadvertently bounced into her yard and snapped a branch off hew prized rose bushes. Nope. He got off completely. Instead, our mom put the blame on me.

Sure, the years passed and as they did we turned into adults and we each got married. Although we moved away from one another we always made it a point to get together and make more memories.

I remember the promise I made to him while he was in a rehabilitation place for cancer patients. He was frail and weak and I visited him each week, oftentimes I saw him twice in one week. Sunday and Tuesday.

I said that I was going to continue to visit him each week after he got home.

That never happened, cause my dear baby brother developed Covid, then pneumonia, finally leaving him in septic shock.  He left us peacefully last Tuesday.

But don't be sad and wipe your tears. Death is only temporary. I have to believe that. I must. I'm convinced  he is with our mom and dad, making some new memories of their own.