The picture on my nightstand

This is the picture I keep on my nightstand, on the highest floor of our Inn.

It’s a selfie of us. Straight and simple. Hand-in-hand. I am not standing behind you, or sitting in front of you like I am in our other family photos; I am beside you. Next to you. I am with you.

In the photo, your grin is fighting the frailty of your face that resulted from all the treatment. You don’t look like a washed-out journalist or a recovering alcoholic. You look familiar.

You look like home.

You look like my brother.

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You look like the brother I grew up with.

You look like the brother that raised me when mom and dad were going through a rough patch.

You look like the brother who took me to the beach on Saturday evenings when we first moved here after mom left

…the brother who taught me the Periodic table after I failed my Chemistry test

and the brother who made me chocolate mousse before you left to study abroad.

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And that grin. That grin is the kind of grin I wanted to make into a badge and wear on a day like this. I want you here. For the right reasons. Not like how I wanted you here after you left.

I don’t want you here like how I wanted you here when dad would yell at me because I didn’t fold towels like you did or like the time I wanted you here to defend me after dad found a boy in my room when I was nineteen.

I want you here because I want you to tell me that you know what you are doing and that you would never do anything to hurt me. Remember all those days when you would let me beat you at your favorite video game in front of your friends. What was it called? Ah yes, ‘Street Fighter’.

I want you to tell me that you would never take anything from me without giving me something in return. Just like how you would replace my old encyclopedias with new ones. I might not have cried at Dad’s funeral, but when I came home after 5 years and saw the latest edition perched on my bookshelf, I couldn’t.

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I couldn’t forget how you sacrificed your summer of 2005 to play volleyball with me so that I would make it back onto the school team for the next term, after my injury.

Man, the staircase still has a dent from the day I tripped. Whenever those floorboards creak, I can feel you rough palms holding my face…holding me so tightly as if your grip could put my dislocated jaw into place. Although my face has never been the same, my serve has never been better.

Four national championship medals on my desk can attest to that.

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You have no idea what that summer meant to me and I didn’t have a clue of what that summer meant to you until I found mom’s letters in a box under your bed. To be honest I was looking for pornographic material; I know you’re not a saint.

When I found out that mom was trying to get you to move to Paris with her, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t tell dad though. He would have just beaten me up for being a snitch.

What could I do? I couldn’t confront you. Confront you for what? Because dad and mom loved you more. I just cried myself into a nap and woke up just in time for our volleyball session that evening.   

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Right beside my medals, I have my most prized possession. It weighs down mom’s letter.

After your passing, I found it in the same beaten up shoebox, under your bed. Right on top of the letters and wrappers and tickets and keychains you’d collected over the years, was your gleaming wedding band.

I didn’t know you were married, but I can’t say that it surprised me. For some reason, I could imagine you finally opening up and falling in love with someone. I could picture you building a fire, a home, and a family.

When did you take it off? Was it before the affair or after you left your wife and two kids? They are doing fine, by the way. They come over at least once a month. Your oldest found your porn stash in your toy chest. I knew it existed!

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I couldn’t stay mad at you for the things I didn’t know. But I could make them right. I could not despise you for the things I didn’t tell you. But I could let them go. And I could not hate you for the things I kept from you. But I could learn from those mistakes.  

I remember the day we took this picture. Do you? Everything was forgiven and forgotten.

I remember J giving me a bouquet of tulips because I had once mentioned in passing, during our first date twenty years ago, that they were my favorite. I remember going for a walk with him on the beach and seeing you standing in a Pinterest-worthy cabana.

It was the happiest day in a long time.

Thank you for making the ceremony so brief. 6 words from you, and I was married. Your speech was the most touching thing I’d ever heard.

On that beach, I knew this was the best picture I had ever taken, without even seeing it. I knew it was the best picture of us ever taken.

Oh my, I have the same feeling today. I have butterflies, caterpillars and the whole zoo in my stomach, as you would joke.

And today, I know whatever decision you’ve made, it would be for the best.  

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A gentle breeze yanked me out of my daze.

“I know you’re there, my love,” I say without turning around.

“You always know,” J says, his nose in my hair and arms around my shoulders.

After a quiet moment, he asks, “The lawyer is here.  She’s about to read the will. Do you think this 3will be our last holiday season in business? “

I ask, and I answer. “Let’s find out?”