Dear Forlorn Friend

Probably we've never met, which means it may seem presumptuous to identify as your friend. Or maybe we have but interact minimally.  At any rate, no prerequisites determine our relationship as sojourners in the most exclusive, albeit loneliest-and-most-to-be-avoided-club in the world.  We did not seek admission; factually, we'd have done anything to have avoided it.  Just as earlier we might not have sought inclusion in a fraternity, sorority, or other social club.  Nor do we want this one now.

We are clam-mouthed for the most part until we can no longer hold back the outpour.  We don't always reveal the condition of a heart cut from its mooring by loss. We may not have known that we carried similar "genes," because many of us have learned to camouflage pain in bright lipstick, painted on smiles, or a stoicism that covers unfathomable pain.  Mostly, we feel helpless, impotent.

Holidays or impending birthdays may be impetus for a sadness that seems to permeate our very souls.  This year, however, it wasn't just the Season that precipitated this blog.  No, in going through papers, which I seem to collect like a beaver with wood, I came cross the funeral program for Walter, my oldest brother.  Has it been 10 years, a decade, since I received that early morning,long-distance call? No! I remember dropping the phone and scampering into my closet, as if to escape the truth of the pronouncement.  Curling into a fetal knot.  No, I wailed! It couldn't be! But it was.
Tracey, my older daughter, had to coax me out of the darkness I sought.  Gently questioning my behavior.  When I could finally speak, she went to pieces!

Hands down, Uncle Walter scored highest on the Favorite Relative Richter scale.  He used to ride his motorcycle from Chicago to Denver, appearing unexpectedly, and loaded with coins in pockets and hidden flaps of his leather jacket, pants, and shirt. What a haul! He'd laugh softly as he watched his two nieces have a ball relieving him of "their" bounty.  My brother didn't fit the stereotypical "Biker"  profile.  His club couldn't have resembled the Hell's Angels if they'd relentlessly tried.  No, in whatever neighborhood they lived, they were everyday nice guys, giving helmeted rides or rescuing preteens from childhood traumas.

Dead! No! A thousand times no!  He hadn't been sick and had finally weaned himself from fixing cars full-time after retiring as a airplane mechanic.  A role-model husband, father, and grandfather, he still had love and time left over to help friend, acquaintance, and stranger alike.  Amid the rush of getting to Chicago, vignettes from my childhood bombarded me.  You talk about bittersweet!  Relatives, friends,and Bikers from his hometown, Illinois,Wisconsin, Michigan and as far away as Ohio attended his Homegoing.  The 'Home" Church couldn't accommodate everyone.  Bittersweet!

I chose to contact you during the Thanksgiving season, but our relationship transcends time, location, and occasion.  My words are rooted in  knowing that Love is Spirit, and Spirit never dies! May God bless and keep you through searing sorrow, palpable pain, and the glimpses of joy that peek out unexpectedly.  I know He will because that's His gift to us.  Love is Spirit and Spirit never dies!