R.I.P.

This is an unflattering picture of my grandfather.  I took it June 14th, not quite two weeks ago.

He died this morning.

I can't say it was unexpected -- he had COPD, and his lack of proper oxygen certainly didn't help his failing heart, liver, and kidneys.  Note the toilet chair in front of him; that was about as far as he could move before utter exhaustion.

My uncle is relieved.

I'm devastated.

See, this man raised me -- he's biologically my grandfather, but he's played the role of my father since I was born.  I spent every other weekend and all school vacations with him, he took care of me and my mother financially when she couldn't, I stayed with him the many times my mom was admitted to the hospital, and he adopted me when she died.  I lived with him between the ages of 13 and 22, moved out for a couple years, moved back in for a year, moved out for a few more, and then moved back in again.

The problem is, as is often the case with death, is the course of our last interaction.  And, as is also often the case, it was fairly negative.

See, I work overnights, and then I do four or five hours at my internship.  When I come home, I go straight to bed to try to get a full seven hours before my next twelve hours of work.  Yesterday, I got home after 1pm, so I was lucky if I was asleep by 2.

At 7pm, I wake up to my grandfather yelling my name.  As I groggily roll out of bed, he yells it again, so naturally, I start to feel a little alarmed.  I rush downstairs and ask what's wrong.  His response?

"Feed the cats."

.......... He can't be serious.

I spend a few minutes reminding him that I sleep during the day, and that the cats have access to crunchy food all day long.  That there is no reason to wake me up two hours before my alarm to feed them; they can wait.  Regardless, I feed the damn cats their stupid, supplementary canned food, all the while mumbling angrily under my breath and slamming dishes and utensils around the kitchen.

As my foot landed on the first stair of the staircase, Grampa says, "Wait.  I want an ice cream cone."

Still irritated -- and more so, now, because there shouldn't even be ice cream in the house (diabetes) -- I throw together a vanilla ice cream cone and hand it to him.  I don't respond when he thanks me.  Then, something weird happens.

He apologizes.

I realize that, if you're reading this, you probably don't know my grandfather.  But he's the really old school, "suck it up and stop being a pussy" type.  Of course, he's an army vet, and he's gone through three heart attacks, a stroke, open heart surgery, prostate cancer, emphysema, and all the crap at the end without batting an eyelash.  I've seen him cry once, ONCE, in 27 years, and it wasn't even when his sister died, or when my mom died, but rather, when the stray cat he adopted died.

So when he says, "Sorry for bothering you, I just have no energy," I'm too flabbergasted to even process it, and I just go upstairs.  Thinking about it now, I'm trying not to get trapped in the guilt trap of realizing that I really must have been being an asshole to make him say that.  It's really hard not to wallow in the awful idea that the last thing I ever did was make him feel bad because he wanted an ice cream and couldn't get it himself.

Sigh.  No matter how many times you go through it, this stuff never gets any easier.

Philadelphia Wizard World 2013

I’ve never been to a comic convention and I never wanted to… until I found out Norman Reedus would be at the Wizard World Con (2013) in Philadelphia.

So I spent an inordinate amount of money on a VIP pass, which includes an autograph ($40), a photo op (more than $40), a sweet NR badge, and a “speed pass” to the front of the lines.  I recruited my best friends, Robin and Mike, we reserved a hotel room, and off we went.

We arrived around 1 PM on Saturday, June 1^st, and the place was crazy busy.  Lots of nerds, lots of cool costumes, and lots of merchandise.  I spotted a huge banner saying PHOTO OPS all the way in the back of the center, so I beelined it to the back and quickly spotted Norman’s booth (it was easy because it had the longest line; there were, very literally, hundreds of people).  I asked a staff member about the VIP pass, and he brought me right up past the General Admission people and to the very short VIP line! I made friends with another VIP, Peter, and he ended up being my VIP buddy for the day.

Waiting at the end of the table, I chatted with Sean Clark, who is always with Norman at events, but otherwise, I don’t know anything about him.  I was like, “I follow you on Twitter,” which was a lie, and he asked if he follows me back, and I said no, so his response was, “Well, there’s probably a reason for that,” which cracked me up.  Then he handed me his phone with Twitter open and was like, “Here, fix it. Find you and follow.”  Super nice!  Every time I saw him around after that, we smiled and waved at each other.

*I change tense here because it was amazing*

So we’re getting closer, and his manager-lady tells us we can take pictures of him signing, but we’re not allowed to take any with him while at the table, boo!  Peter and I make a deal that I’ll take pictures of him with Norman, and he’ll take ones of me after.  I decide I'm going to ask him about living in Georgia, tell him he inspired me to start writing again, and thank him for being so good to his fans.

Peter yanks out this huge Daryl Dixon poster, and Norman is like, “Where did you get this?!” before taking a picture of it with his phone.  He signs, they chat a little, and Peter moves.  I’m trying to hand him my phone while balancing the book I brought for Norman and pulling out my pictures for him to sign when I hear, “Hey, sweetheart.”  His voice was so gentle, like delicious melted chocolate.  I’ve got the photo in my teeth when I look up, and I freeze.  It was ridiculously akin to a deer in headlights, and I was taken aback that Norman Reedus was looking at me, he'slookingrightatme.

I must've looked a little crazy or terrified for him to look over at me like that!

After a moment of me just staring at him, he says, “I’m Norman.”  My idiotic response is to thrust my picture at him and ask, “Will you sign two?”  He asks if it should be written to anyone, but I’m dumb and don’t answer, so he starts signing mine as I pull out the other one I brought for my boss, and I’m mumbling something about how she loves him, too, but she couldn’t come – I was just rambling because I was freaking out.  He points at the little one and says, “That’s my bathroom!” and I start rambling about how much I love when he poses his action figure weird and posts pictures of it on Twitter.  After he signs both photos, he looks at me again and does a come-here kind of motion, and I just stand there staring at him until he motions a second time.  Naturally, when he hugs me, I fangirl right in his ear, “Oh my god, you smell SO good.”  Cue forehead-slap.

I wish I knew what I was saying to make him ponder at me!

I collect my pictures and move down to a little empty table, where Peter is rolling up his giant poster.  As I’m putting my bag down, I realize I’m still holding the book, and almost scream, “Peter, I forgot to give it to him!”  Thank goodness for my VIP buddy, because he yells,” Go back and give it to him!” and gives me a push.  I completely interrupt the girl behind me (who was super bitchy in line, so I don’t feel bad) and push the book at him.  He turns and goes to sign it, so I slide my hands onto the cover, and when he looks at me, I stutter, “No, it’s for you!”  He picks it up in both hands, still looking at me, and quietly says, “Thank you.  Thanks so much.”  It’s so sincere-sounding that I get freaked out again and turn and run away.

According to my friends, the moment that I turned away from him, my eyes rolled back in my head and I made an orgasm face.  I don’t remember this, but I don’t doubt it in the least.  Experiencing the Reedus will do that to a girl.

Yay, beer!

Next, Robin, Mike, and I took a little break and went to the Hard Rock Café to get a beer, during which I completely forgot about and missed the entire Q&A panel for Norman, Michael Rooker (Merle), and Jon Bernthal (Shane).  

My friends walk me back to the hall, but then I abandon them to wait in the VIP photo op line with Peter.  I’m not exaggerating when I say there were at least a thousand people waiting.  Peter and I were in the second line, and there were thirteen more lines after us, each with at least a hundred people in each (they were LONG).

The photo op was supposed to start at 5:10pm, and we were in line before five o’clock.  We're still standing in the same spot at quarter past six, and they keep announcing over the PA system that the hall is going to close at seven, and we all need to leave.  Peter and I agree that Norman would never abandon us, and we're right!  The line ahead of us suddenly starts moving super fast -- the photos were going at light-speed, just *click* NEXT *click* NEXT *click* NEXT!

I walk up to the tape line on the floor, the staff guy says, “GO!” and I kind of skip over to Reedus.  He puts his arm out for me to step under, says hello again, and I blurt, “Can I lick you?!”  

In an absolute certain, deadpan voice, with no hesitation whatsoever, he says, “Yes.”  So I do, and they take the picture.  He tasted a little salty, and his facial hair tickled.

Norman giggles -- no lie, he GIGGLED – at me, and turns toward me like he’s going to say something.  AND I RUN AWAY AGAIN.  WHY WOULD I RUN AWAY FROM HIM.  *bangs head on wall for all eternity*

The photos print slowly, and the staff wants us all OUT, so they tell us we can get our pictures outside in the registration area.  Then, they announce that Norman will be signing AGAIN out there!  Peter and I rush out, and it’s a HUGE clusterfuck.  There were several different fan groups, no one knew where to stand for what thing, and there are those hundreds of people all looking for their pictures.  I grab Peter’s bag and he leads us through the crowd, and yells at someone, “Hey, guy in the red shirt, hand me my picture!”  I notice a guy nearby who keeps looking at me, then at the table, back at me, and back at the table, so I say, “You see my picture, don’t you?”  He says, “I think so,” and I go, “I LICKED him!” and he grins and grabs my picture for me!

Peter and I charge over to the impromptu Norman booth in the corner, and a staff member motions us into the VIP line, which is super short!  After a while, once everyone in the photo line is through, Norman comes out.  We all cheer as he’s walking toward us, and he holds up an orange like he’s super proud of it, which was adorable.

When I get up to him again, I force myself to say, “Hi, I’m Jamie, and I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself before but every time I try to speak to you, nothing comes out but this weird little noise!”  He smiles and signs my name and a little heart and his initials.  He looks up, still smiling, and goes, “You’re so cute.”  Then he puts his hand up for a high five, and when I give it to him, he closes his fingers over mine!!!  His hands were so warm, but not clammy, just wonderfully warm.  AND I RAN AWAY AGAIN WTF!

From what I hear on Twitter, he stayed until everyone was finished, a couple hours after the convention was over.  He’s so, so, so incredibly sweet.

I think June 1^st, 2013, was the best day of my twenty-seven years.  Seriously.  Never been so happy.

AND I LICKED NORMAN REEDUS!

Empathetic empathy

Empathy is an ability, a skill.  Sympathy is an emotion.  That is the difference between the two.  Everyone knows what sympathy is; your girlfriend sees a dead cat by the side of the road and she cries, because a poor little kitty is dead.  Those with empathy might think of the fear the cat experienced while a vehicle was bearing down upon it, or the pain of the little girl who wonders where her kitty went.

Empathy is an ability, but it is also a curse.  It makes you experience emotions -- usually negative ones -- when you, personally, have no reason to feel badly.

It seems that empathy is my life skill.  I have this uncanny ability to put myself into others' shoes, even though I haven't experienced much, myself.  Sometimes, it's helpful -- I tend to be a pretty good judge of character, and I've been told I give very reasonable advice.  But I always smile when work clients tell me I have no idea what they're going through, because I have never experienced a severe drug addiction.  They're right, but also wrong.  That smile is a rueful one.

Sometimes, I wish I wasn't at all empathetic, that I could be like everyone else and have no consideration for other people's feelings.  I wish I could just flip that switch and focus on myself.  It's so much easier that way.  Those kind of people have no idea how lucky they are.

Instead I've consigned myself to work in human services forever.  I'll work long, extremely draining hours making a sub-par salary, in an attempt to improve lives because I feel for them.

Empathy is a shit skill to have.

/selfpity

Norman, my Norman.

This man fascinates me.  I mean, utterly, completely intrigues me.  And, believe it or not, it wasn't his good looks that caught my attention first.  It was his acting.

If you don’t know, Norman Reedus plays Daryl Dixon in the extremely popular AMC series, The Walking Dead.  Daryl is a redneck with incredibly developed survival skills, and a similarly talented, but far more malicious older brother, Merle.  Though I was hooked on the show after just two episodes, Norman didn't really catch my eye right away (he doesn't actually appear until episode 3).  In fact, I didn't even recognize him as the actor who played Murphy McManus in The Boondock Saints.  (Though, to be fair, TBS came out in the late nineties, and I hadn't seen it since it exploded all over my college campus back in my ungrad years.)  Daryl seemed, at first, to be every bit the asshole his brother was, and who likes an asshole?

But then, as the season went on, and Merle disappeared, Daryl’s character began to seem different.  It seemed like there might be a spark of humanity under the cruel façade Reedus portrayed so well.  It became clear that he was starting to care for some of the others in the group, however unwilling, and it was obvious that his distance was only a defense mechanism to protect himself.  He began putting effort into helping everyone, contributing and being useful.  As the first season slipped into the second, he began to seem more like a member of the group, rather than just a guy following the people with the supplies.

There was a defining moment for me, when my entire view of Daryl transformed.  **If you haven’t watched through season 2 yet, I’m about to reveal a spoiler.**  After the group discovers Sofia in the barn, Daryl regresses completely, maybe even overcompensating and becoming even more angry and withdrawn than he had previously.  After all the effort he put into searching for the girl, his already ragged and wounded ego couldn't handle the blow of losing her.  He put himself out there, and he got burned, just like he must have been, many times through his life.  That pain, and his harsh, abrupt reaction, left me in awe of the man behind the character.  Obviously, the writers have the main hand in producing the script, and the director sets up the scenes perfectly, but it was the phenomenal portrayal of Daryl’s reaction that has me so intrigued with Mr. Reedus.

Norman put an entire back story to Daryl’s character without ever putting it into words.  Such a feat is already incredibly impressive, but the fact that he was given a sort of free reign with the character, and he chose to take it in that direction -- and was ridiculously successful! -- blows my mind.

I've watched countless interviews, panels, and Q&A videos, and read dozens of articles and written interviews, and I only become more and more impressed.  I wish I could sit down with him and pick his brain.  I want to know his history, and the experiences that make him so humble and nice.  I want to know what made him who he is today, because it seems clear to me that so much of him is in Daryl’s character.

Like I said, fascinating!  And yes, I did use this as an excuse to post copious amounts of photos :)  Here's one more for the road!  Oh, captain, my captain!

You don't have to be a Reedus fan...

To find this video absolutely hilarious.  Watch it!  Trust me!



See?  Told ya!

Something to believe in.

You know, ever since I was young, I always wished I had a cause -- something to really believe in, you know? I used to complain that I wasn't born in the early 1900s, so that I could've contributed to the war efforts in the 'teens or the early '40s. I even used to wish I'd been of-age in the 60s so I could've either helped out or been part of the protests to bring the troops home. I just always wished I had something to fight for.

In my last semester of undergrad, I signed up to join the Air Force. I was beyond excited! Besides the fact that I would have my degree and therefore was eligible to take the officer's test, I was just excited to go to basic, get training, and start being part of something bigger than myself. I couldn't wait to start contributing to society, in a way that I really believed I would love. Unfortunately for me, the Air Force standards for scoliosis measurements prohibited me from joining. I had been so close, and I was devastated when they gave me the news.

A few months later, I lost my brother, and I didn't think much of the military. I went through a depression and a few jobs, then met a new boyfriend and moved out to Western Mass. Out there, I was too busy worrying about paying the bills and trying to salvage our declining relationship to think of much else. I decided I hated my stupid job, and my only salvation would be graduate school, so my sights turned to that. Shortly after, I met Justin, and blah blah love and such, yadda yadda.

Justin is a Marine. He's not active duty, and he finished up his reserve term just a few months ago (and trust me, my relief was great). But he's still a Marine. "Once a Marine, always a Marine," and I don't ever forget that. The bond those boys have is nothing I could ever understand, but I'm not sure I could respect anything more. I think I'm lucky that I didn't have to deal with the stress, worry, and loneliness that I would've had to face if I'd been with him during his active duty, but I also kind of feel that I lost out a bit, too. I didn't get the chance to support him while he was gone, to be strong for him and make sure he knew I would be here waiting for him to get back. I didn't get to write him letters or send him care packages, or feel that rush when he came home on leave, safe and sound. Not that I'm not supremely grateful that he survived all three tours, of course I am! And again, I know the pain of him leaving would've been beyond anything. I just feel like our relationship would've just been that much more solid at the end.

Anyway, I didn't start writing this because I wanted to go on and on about my amazing Marine (believe it or not). I just wanted to let anyone who reads this know that we should all support our troops. All the brave men and women that are serving overseas and here in-country are doing it to protect our rights and freedom. They are the reason I can go to grad school; they're the reason I can write this post! I just hope our soldiers know that their country supports them, and that we're all hoping and praying for their safe returns.

And since it is the holiday season, should anyone feel like helping out a troop, a great resource is Any Soldier. In short, it offers an opportunity for kind-hearted people to donate money and needed items to send to deployed troops, and the packages are labelled "Attn: Any Soldier" so that they can be distributed out to those who don't get much mail -- it happens, because unfortunately, not every soldier is blessed with supportive family and friends. They also have related sites for specific branches; my favorite is, of course, Any Marine. You can put together care packages, or even just donate money (and they tell you exactly what they do with your money, right here). Even $5 can contribute toward getting a package out, so the cost of a fancy drink at Starbucks can help a soldier get a package full of things he or she needs.

One of Any Soldier's partners is Operation: Quiet Comfort, a group that sends supplies to troops who were injured in the Middle East and are now receiving medical treatment. They provide personal hygiene supplies, entertainment supplies (books and such), and quilts sewn to honor the soldiers. They're another good site to check out.

Even though I'm not able to be out there fighting along side all of America's amazing soldiers, I hope they know that my heart is out there with them.

(Sorry for being emo)

Most of the time, everything is fine. But it only takes the first few notes of a certain song or the smell of a certain food to make a smile disappear. It reminds you of things and places and people long gone. Just a specific phrase, or a particular touch. The memories are nice, but sometimes they only serve to remind you that those things are lost to you. They're out of reach, even if you stand on your tip-toes and stretch your fingers as far as you can. You'll never be that young again, you'll never feel so safe, you'll never know the touch of their skin again.

Most days are fine. But not every day.

One Glorious Morning

I woke up this morning, and I laughed. Not just a little laugh, either, but a hearty chest laugh that even drew a few teardrops from the corners of my eyes. I wiped them away with my index finger – first the right, then the left – and sighed contentedly. The morning sunlight was pouring through the window, warm on my face as I stretched my arms over my head, still smiling.

How silly I felt, having wasted two whole years over such a thing. It was certainly a shame to have squandered all that time, but it was also a huge relief. I was so happy to figure out that my big brother was still, in fact, alive, and not a pile of ashes in a metal urn sitting on a bookshelf.

The birds were chirping outside. I rolled onto my side and looked out into the backyard. The grass was as green as it had ever been, the flowers were in bloom, and the trees were rich with color. I giggled, making plans in my head to pack some clothes and drive the hour home to visit him, and maybe even stay the weekend. We did have two whole years to make up for, after all.




This actually occurred a few days ago. The only differences were the fact that I didn't laugh out loud, and that the Boyfriend was sleeping next to me.

That feeling of relief was so overwhelming. I'm not sure I've ever felt so happy in my entire life as I did in that one, sunny, amazing moment.

Then, it was gone. As he is.




.... It never does go away.

I must have done something really bad for karma to treat me like this.

About a week and a half ago, my boss decided to suddenly cut my hours at work, because he "can't afford" to pay me for 40 hours, despite the brand new electronics and office equipment he just bought (not to mention his personal new Blackberry phone and cross-country skiis).

That evening was my night to visit the boyfriend down in Westfield (Westfield to Leeds is about a 40 minute drive). I planned to talk to boyfriend about him not wanting to make the move to Worcester in the fall, when I hopefully will be starting grad school. For some reason, panic overtook me, and I broke up with him over this. It was completely irrational, and I was hysterical and crazy and awful for the next 6 days, until he finally agreed to speak with me, and we worked things out.

Friday evening, on my way back to Leeds from Westfield, I was involved in my first ever car accident. The plan was to take a left onto the city's very busy main street. The SUV coming toward me was taking a right onto my street, and the other direction was clear. I waited to make sure the car with its blinker on was actually turning, looked in both directions again, then tried to make a speedy entry into traffic. Instead, I made a speedy entry into the car that had been hidden BEHIND the SUV, which had taken the liberty to go around the turning vehicle.

Yesterday afternoon, after my boss made me stay almost two hours longer than my shift was supposed to last, he sat me down and told me that he really likes working with me, I do a really great job, blah, blah, blah. I thought this was my annual review, which was 3 days overdue already. Reviews generally promise a dollar raise, and these days, any extra money is more than welcome.

I did not get a raise. No, instead, I got laid off. He assured me that I've done absolutely nothing wrong, I'm really great, but our collections are down and patient volume is low -- it is the same as it's ever been in the last year, in my bitter but honest opinion. Of course, he'll give me a glowing reference, and extend the very unafforable option of COBRA insurance, and he'll even let me work until the end of next week! Oh boy!

So I go home where the boyfriend is waiting, and we somehow proceed to have an argument and spend the rest of the evening in silence.

He posed the idea that maybe I've run over some innocent animals without knowing it.

Karma, well, she seems very angry with me. I'm sorry, Karma. Whatever it was I did, I'm sorry!

Hopefully happier posts will come in the future.

An actual update

Okay, so I moved out to western Mass in October 2008. It is now January of 2010. Allow me to very quickly highlight the events of the past year and a half:

• Redheaded Boy and I broke up, got back together, broke up, got back together, broke up and didn't get back together
• I moved from Westfield to Leeds (a suburb of Northampton)
• I got a job working as a Front Desk Chiropractic Assistant -- a glorified receptionist position -- in January of '09
• I have a new boyfriend. He is the subject of the prior post, and he is wonderful.
• I went back and forth between going back to school for my Masters in Psychology and for a ADN (nursing) program. Just this very evening, I discussed my ideas with The Boyfriend, and he encourages me on my latest decision, a Certificate of Advanced Graduate Studies in School Psychology back at Worcester State. In other words, come the end of my lease (June), the two of us should be moving to Worcester -- back home!
• I haven't written much, as you've likely seen :-\
• I got my first tattoo!
• I'm up to... (yes, I had to count) 6 piercings now, and only one is R rated.
• I found a gym that I love love love, but this tattoo (and the holidays) put me out of commission for a little while.
Pictures!! Look see!


The boyfriend (he's being shy):


The tattoo (it's for my mum's tenth anniversary):



The bedroom (counter-clockwise):

I figure a picture update will do for now. I do, though, plan on blogging more, now that I have some free time for a change.

Good lord, I actually wrote something

Sex with him is like coming home.

I can barely blink when he is over me. He is barely outlined by the faint light sneaking through the blinds, but I know he is meeting my gaze in the dark. My breath catches in my chest and his breath comes faster as he moves inside me. Coherent thoughts are impossible. I run my hands over his back, trace his tattoos with my tongue. I love his skin.

Together, our breathing synchronizes in quick, shallow gasps. His thrusts become harder and faster, his fingers tighten on the sheets, and my nails dig into him. In the afterglow of my orgasm, I eagerly await his. He comes, and a small sound of pleasure escapes him, a sound that causes me several sequential shivers. Heart pounding, he lays upon me, so I happily massage his weary shoulders. My mind marvels at the hollow loneliness that shrouded me when I had first crawled into bed, when he was still at work. Alone with my oppressive despair, I doubted everything and colored my world with pessimism. I laid on my side, looking out the window at the moonlit rooftop beyond, comparing my life to the bleak surface of the shingles. After a time, I slipped mercifully into sleep.

Now, he lifts himself up onto his elbows, watching me. He trails his fingers over my cheek, then follows them lightly with his lips. They roam over my cheekbones, my eyebrows, my chin, my nose, and finally, my mouth, where I accept the most tender kiss I have ever experienced. He brushes the bangs from my brow, and continues to look down at me.

I do not trust myself to speak. I know if I open my mouth, I will tell him I love him, and it is just too soon for that. So I remain silent and concentrate on relaxing, trying to stop my body from trembling. I consider how my room doesn’t feel cozy when he is gone, how the house doesn’t feel like home, and how my bed feels so cold. He brings me warmth, comfort, security; he brings me joy and pleasure, and coaxes an appreciation of being alive from somewhere in me that even I can’t reach. And in some ways, the way he makes me feel is completely indescribable.

When I turn toward the window, his arm wraps around me, and his warm frame snuggles into my back. This time, I admire the beauty of the pale moonlight, the texture of the shingles, and the shadows of the leaves, and blissfully, I drift into sleep.

It's been a year.

And this is what I have to show for it.





There is a heavy snow falling, but the flakes are fluffy and light, and powder the ground in a soft, white blanket. Leafless trees line my path, dark against the elements. They usher me forward, barring the tendency to veer off course. I tear my gaze from them and look ahead. Down a long, snow-carpeted path is an enormous tree stump, the top perfectly level and flat. Upon it, sits a man.

As I approach, I see he is sitting cross-legged. His eyes are closed and his hands are on his knees. Short brown hair, the same color as mine, covers his head. He is broad shouldered and, though he is seated, it is apparent that he is tall – taller than me, that is – maybe close to six feet. Disregarding the winter environment, he wears a tee shirt with a tie-dye design, jeans, and no shoes. There is no snow on his person.

Guilt nags at me as the snow crunches under my feet; he looks so peaceful, I am loathe disturb him. I make little sound as I draw nearer, yet while I am still a distance away, he opens his eyes and sees me. No surprise mars his features, and the calm in his eyes almost radiates outward. He says nothing as I move within speaking distance, finally settling down on my knees before him. I sit back on my heels, rest my hands in my lap, and look up at him silently.

After a moment, he says, “Hey, kid.”

I blink. “Hi.”

He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I shrug.

“You always say that. I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.”

Glancing away, I pretend to be very interested in my interlaced fingers. There is a long pause. “It’s been a year.”

“Yeah.”

Another silence. Finally, I manage to bring my eyes back to his, noting how his remained a significantly lighter shade than my own. “I miss you.” My voice breaks and I feel myself tearing up. I look down again.

“I miss you, too, kid. But you shouldn’t focus on the past.”

Like a stubborn child, I whine, “I want to focus on the past. I want to remember!”

He reaches down and lifts my chin. “It’s okay to remember. Just don’t let it ruin your present.”

Suddenly angry, I jump to my feet. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair that, after all those years, I finally find you, I finally have a brother again, and then you’re gone! And there’s no one to be mad at! I can’t be mad at you, I can’t be mad at the EMTs, I can’t be mad at your family or friends or step dad, I—” The next word comes out as a sob, and I collapse into his outstretched arms, hugging him with all my strength, as if to let go would be to lose him all over again.

“Shh, hey, calm down, kiddo. Breathe.” He strokes my hair as I sob helplessly into his shoulder. “I’m always with you, you know.”

Trembling, I shake my head. I open my mouth to speak, but only a tiny squeak emerges, so I close it, take a deep breath, and try again. “There isn’t even a grave, Matt,” I manage to force out in a raspy, tear-choked voice.

“I know. Cremation is more affordable; you know Art and Diane don’t have a lot of money.”

“I know, I know, but it’s just… I just want to have somewhere to go. I want to visit you.”

“You’re visiting me now.”

“It’s not the same.”

“You never did lose that stubbornness, did you?” There’s a note of playful mockery in his tone. He sighs. “I remember when we used to play X-Men with Bruce in the backyard. I was Gambit, he was Cyclops, and you always wanted to be Storm. We used spend hours trying to talk you into Rogue, because you look more like her. I once even went over all the differences in Storm and Rogue’s powers to try and talk the sense of it into you. And still, every single time, you ultimately played as Storm.”

I smile against his chest, my cheeks wet and eyes puffy. “I remember.”

“Remember when we would spend hours in your room, playing Darius Twin and Ninja Turtles on Super Nintendo?”

I nod, wiping my nose on the back of my hand, and sit back on the stump beside him. “Do you remember that huge snowstorm, when school was cancelled and the snow was so high that we couldn’t open the outside doors?”

He grins. “And Bruce, Tessa, and I came through the basement to get you.”

“And then we played Omega Virus a hundred times?”

“That was a great game.” He smiles again, a little sadly. “Man, I remember how good your mom’s swedish meatballs were.

“You loved those.”

“I used to eat a dozen every time.”

“How about those little cherry cheesecake cups?”

“Those were amazing. And her kielbasa? Mmm.”

We stop talking, both drifting into our own reminiscent thoughts. Our shoulders press together and I close my eyes, savoring his warmth, his solidity. When I open them, he is looking at me.
“What?”

“I really love you, sis. Don’t ever forget that. Just because we didn’t see each other for a few years doesn’t mean that ever did, or ever will change. You’re doing really well for yourself: your own apartment, a boyfriend that takes good care of you, a cat, a car, two jobs… You’re where I was hoping to be after I finished school.”

My lower lip quivers. “I want you to have that. I wish you were there with me.” My vision clouds over and I, again, find myself in the safe circle of his arms. “I wish you got to finish school, I wish you got a good job, I wish you got the chance to get a new apartment... did you know, right before you died, I was planning to ask you if you wanted to get a place together? Cut down on the rent, see you every day, hang out on weekends—” This time, my sentence is cut off by violent, body-wracking sobs, and my brother’s arms tighten around me protectively. He begins to rock and, after a time, I quiet down, sniffling softly into his neck.

“Hey kid. I gotta get going.”

I sit up, not meeting his gaze. “I know.”

He touches my cheek, one corner of his mouth curling in a smirk. “Same time next year?” he asks, a sadness shining through the joking lift of his voice.

Again, I nod, unable to speak. We embrace tightly, and he presses his lips to my forehead, mumbling, “I love you,” into my skin.

“Forever and ever,” I agree, crying again.

And just like that, he is gone. Alone, I stand up, brush the snow off my pants, and head back the way I came.