Baby Blue

     I have this picture in my mind of my brother. In it, he's maybe Kindergarten, baby blue shirt, hair parted on one side and bangs combed across his forehead. But his face. Oh, on his face is the sweetest, most bashful expression. For some reason, this is the image locked in my mind after hearing the news that he died. It's like my brain wants to keep that innocent image up front to keep my heart from knowing that my brother is gone.
     None of this makes sense. There is no world in which this can be real. Yet, here I sit in the dark early hours of a new day, shaking and crying and trying to remember while trying to forget.
     When my brother was a teen, he wore a pin that said, 'No Fat Chicks.' He was kind of a, well, a you know what, when he was a teenager, all bravado and ego and full of himself. His childhood nickname, Champ, pretty much laid the foundation for it. But when it came to his family, Dave was always there. His first priority was protecting the people he loved, even if it put him at risk.
   
     One winter it snowed like it was never going to stop. The white stuff piled and drifted up so deep that we could stand in it and touch the steel siding of our small barn's roof. Obviously, too tempting to resist to three kids with a snow day of fun in mind. I still remember how exhilarating it was to climb up on the roof, precariously set down the slippery plastic sled, and then WHOOSH! Down the roof, off the end, and into the snow bank below. I went first, because I was oldest, maybe ten. Dave, only seven, went next, watched by his sisters. He landed with a whoop of excitement, which turned to a frown when Karen, maybe five, said it was her turn. "You're too little," he told her. "You'll get hurt," he told her. None of the Brickey's aren't stubborn, so after some arguing, Dave agreed to let her slide off the roof, but on the condition that he was going to catch her. I can still see him standing in the deep drift, arms outstretched to catch her and make sure she landed safely. My little sister sat on the thin plastic, feet out in front, and slid down that roof like a pro. I remember how her booted feet hit Dave square in his coated chest, how he disappeared beneath three feet of whiteness, buried under the sled and Karen. She got up, we dug him out, and then we all laughed. There was no way he was going to stop her fall, no way he could catch her without putting himself in harm's way; but, he did it anyway.
     My brother never contemplated failure. In his mind, he was always going to win, to be his best. If you knew Dave at all, you know he was pretty competitive. Always. We were living in the old farmhouse on Otter Road, and decided to have a competition to see who could jump off of the highest stair on the case leading up to our attic playroom into the living room. We started at the bottom, each jumping from one, then the next higher, and the next, etc. After maybe three steps, Dave decided it was taking too long and went up almost to the top stair. His head was absolutely above the floor of the attic/ceiling of the living room below. He loud whispered (because my mom was just down the hall in the living room), "Watch me!" and crouched down, preparing to jump. I remember the sound his forehead made when it connected with the wall, how his body moved horizontally, and how he almost slow motion dropped flat upon the floor. He was out cold as I watched the goose egg that lumped immediately on his forehead. He came to, and we were worried Mom would hear, because, you know, we didn't want to get in trouble. Dave's eyes flickered open, and as they crossed and uncrossed we warned him to be quiet. His brown eyes focused on me as he whispered, "I win."
     It was hard some days to like my brother, but then we grew up. Dave was interning at the State Capitol, all suited up, being professional. And I had my daughter, way too early, and had to spend eight of what I thought would be the worst weeks of my life at Sparrow Hospital's NICU. Thirty years ago, only parents and grandparents were allowed to go into the rooms with the babies. One parent with one grandparent. No others. No exceptions. Around week four, maybe five, as I entered the NICU, Dave passed me on his way out. It was his lunch break, so he had to get back, but he offered to stay with me if I needed him. After I scrubbed in and was sitting beside the incubator where my three pound baby laid, one of the nurses mentioned my brother. She told me he had been coming to see my daughter every single day. She told me he came and just stood outside, watching her, talking to her, telling her she was going to be okay and how much he loved her. She told me she had offered to let him scrub in and stand beside my Katie, but that he had said no. The rules were there to keep his niece safe. The nurses were all a little in love with my brother because of that. He never even told me he was doing that, going every day.
     The last ten years changed my brother. He softened his competitive spirit. He showed his love more easily. He suffered his heartache after my son died, worried about its effect on his own sons. Dave was always here for me. He was one of my best friends, keeping me 'okay' and breathing. It was easy to like my brother, easier to love him, to look forward to spending time with him and his family.
     And then my phone rang, and now he is gone. Too much grief for one family. Too much hurt and pain and anger and confusion.

Too many stories that I love and want to share:
     Kidnapping 'Donkey' and holding it for ransom to taunt and tease his little sister.
     My 13th birthday party outdoor tent sleepover that he and his friends sabotaged (enlivened) when they sneakily emptied multiple Mason jars of live crickets beneath the tent's edges as dusk descended.
     Making sure he was the first one to 'test' our brilliant idea of leaping off the tree branch while hanging on to the swing, made from the heft of a boat dock rope, diameter larger than all of our small hands put together.
     The fake kidnapping of our cousin Mike by the wild Indians that lived in our back woods.
     "Get out of the mud!" Oh, the 'don't go into the mud' story that ended with Dave's boots forever lost somewhere beneath feet of mud, hulking muddy footprints from the corn crib and into the basement, and the inevitable two weeks of grounding from everything we loved.

Too many stories. Too much pain. Too much love that even now I cannot wish away. I am broken but still fighting, clinging to the bashful, innocent face of my baby brother in his kindergarten picture.