goodbye

goodbye
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

My sister at the 40th Street Pier on the Hudson.

LANDS END

My brother walks through the open door of my apartment at the very end of west 42nd Street.

I am at the computer in the bedroom and I do not move to greet my brother. I stay in the bedroom, quiet and spent from by birthday. (It's not because of you Car, if you're reading this) - it's because wheeling about New York often leads to bone aching sleepiness. But once I am again back in my apartment, I rally by reestablishing my healthy denial (my outside voice is torn and weak, the voice in my head remains clarion and chatty - my flaccid legs and feet are simply temporarily indisposed). Alone, I forget all the healthy bodies clogging the city sidewalks reminding me of my terrible disease.

"knock, KNOCK!"

"Come on in," I wheeze. I can't make my voice loud anymore and I put this loss out of mind too. I have put all of my losses out of mind. (My lost muscles, my threadbare voice, are simply friendly, manageable symptoms).

My brother comes into my room and leans down with an awkward half- hug.  Stuck in my chair,  I am brittle and stand-offish (it's my breath! - once clean and sweet, now stinking from vanishing motor neurons, apparently).

"Do you mind if I hang up some things? I need to get some pants out for work. Am I sleeping in here?"

Out come bland, preppy clothes and spotless shoes (with shoe trees).

My whole family (accept for my mother) is crazy for tidy clothes, shiny shoes, the plain discreet watch. My family likes to talk about parkas and walking shoes, water proof gloves and winter boots (Patagonia, Lands End, Coleman) like they're busy travelers, manic outdoor enthusiasts, which they are not. I listen up during these outdoor gear talks. I make mental notes. I kind of get it, but everything I own and wear turns baggy and frayed; new shoes become a loopy mess. I will eventually lose the tasteful watch and the nifty keychain flashlight from Orvis.

I watch my brother unpack.  He is in simple business attire, meticulous and lint free (later in the weekend he will get salad oil on a sleeve and remark that it's time to replace this buttondown - something that would never occur to me, a little stain taking a shirt out of circulation).

"Are you ready for some wild, fun with your lame, disabled, little brother?" I ask.

My brother lets go an open, boyish laugh, and he is as handsome as he was as a teenager. (I tried to copy that laugh growing up).

I don't smile back - ever so withholding - punishing him for his good health.

"Shall we walk out to the river?" I ask.

"Sure!"

But before we make it out the door,  Jackie (my seventy two year old neighbor) walks in.

New Yorker

New Yorker
Originally uploaded by Charlie Roberts

“On the threshold of love we are bashful,” Proust noted. “There has to be someone who will say to us, ‘Here is what you may love: love it.’ ”