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A lazy Saturday. Wintry Cleveland…

The vibrating phone read UNKNOWN NUMBER. (Welcome to the new home edition of Russian Roulette. Trust me—when my Caller ID is private, it can only be one of three callers: A bill collector, my ex, or, (if the G/d’s are with me), my son.

So I gambled…and it came up sevens!

“Hey” said the voice (and I knew I was safe).

That’s how the next generation starts every conversation. It’s the ultimate in multi-tasking: one word, heck—one syllable that combines hello, how are you, that he’s fine, and what am I doing…).

“Michael! Is everything OK?” I asked. (My people’s knee-jerk response).

Opening ceremonies concluded, we shared current events and concerns —typical stuff. I mentioned the upcoming trip to Florida and anticipation of good times with good friends.

“Maybe when you’re down there you can find a job,” he interjected.
“You’d live longer in good weather.”

We’ve been down this road before (father and son), and so my response was no surprise to him:

“I can’t make a living down there. If I could afford to go I’d think about it.”

Michael’s rejoinder, though, took a left turn:
“Get off it Dad. You talk like a big shot, but whom (sic) are you kidding?”

SILENCE…..THEN HE CONTINUED.

“Unless Uncle Harold moves with you you’d never go. You two have something you may never have had before. You’re not leaving him. You guys have a ball together.”

The kid was right. Fact is, even Michael couldn’t have known how timely his assertion was.

I have an old black-and-white picture of us—two brothers sitting on the steps of the inner-city Hopkins house. It was taken before the move to the burbs, so figure about 1954. We are smiling and we are hugging. Tightly.

Somewhere along the way, though, (perhaps in our teens, maybe later), we lost a grip on each other—not to reconnect until early this decade.
And now, Michael is right— I don’t want to let go.

It’s the comfort level—of knowing that at this moment in time, (and maybe, truly, always), there is an unlimited connection between brothers, and, yes, an unconditional love.

If Michael can see it from the coast, other must see it up close.

It’s more than driving to Jersey for breakfast and more than sharing our aunt, (although those make the highlight film).

It’s better than that. Hal and I, you see, share the ordinary. (Some might say we revel in it)!

Jamie and Eric still joke about the discussion H and I had about coffee options for Mom’s 80th birthday party. It took 20 solid minutes.
We sat there, the night before the party….two grown adults, and analyzed issues on boxes, cups, decaf, regular, Giant Eagle, Caribou, sugar, fake sugar, times of delivery, pickup, potential for breakage, potential for getting cold, do we then need tea (decaf or regular, flavored, etc)…Sounds stupid now, but we sat there at the Shabbos dinner, with solemnity in our focus, and with the family watching…having this major conversation…like we were planning the Raid On Entebbe…until finally Margie reentered from the kitchen startling us with “Are you two REALLY still talking about the coffee?”

My brother was nonplussed. Rolling his hands to the sky, passionately, dramatically he pronounced to the assembled:

“The art of conversation! It’s the art of conversation.”

These days we have a lot of that. Almost daily.

My brother makes me laugh and he makes me feel safe. I hope I am reciprocating. There is an innocence to our connection today that is not unlike the care-free times on Hopkins. We each have our problems, but together they need not be troubles.

We share our pasts as we conquer our todays.

Twelve hours before Michael’s comment Hal and I had exchanged Chanukah cards. His included a picture of us from the pontoon last summer. Two Jews on a f’ing canoe in Wisconsin…but…together…we were OK with it.
My note to H was less visceral but more direct. “No one makes me smile the way you do,” I wrote.

Michael was right.

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 20th, 2009 at 7:37 pm and is filed under Up From Dysfunction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.