The Unfinished

       We were never good at finishing things.

       In winter, on the days we had enough snow, we’d try to make snow forts, or more like you started to build and I absently packed a little snow here and there. Mostly I watched or ran around the yard with the dogs.

       You worked diligently, until we both became too cold, and then we’d retreat in the house for cups of steaming hot chocolate, watching the snow fall. We’d get distracted with cartoons or a computer game like Heroes of Might and Magic or Age of Empires and by the time we thought of the snow again it would be too late and the sky would be ashy and dark and the snow fort would stay half finished.

       It never bothered us, I don’t think; it was more about the initial excitement, especially on a snow day, a day off school. It was more about the sheer delight of beginning, of constructing something out of nothing, of letting the world become our playground.

       But it was like that with so many things.

       It was like that sometimes with the games of mini golf you set up in our yard. It was silly, not professional by any means, and we’d use the oddest things for holes: frisbees, cardboard boxes; I remember you always insisted on having a hole at the top of the playhouse even though it was nearly impossible--not to mention a tad dangerous--to try to whack the golf ball up a plastic slide.

       But the problem was the course was so darn long, half the time we’d be called in for chores or homework or to eat, and then we’d forget what hole we were in, or one of the holes would somehow become misplaced.

       I guess all I am trying to say is this: no matter how many times we start over, we are always repeating the same mistakes.

* * * *

We were still close with some of our cousins then, though the cracks had already started to spread. Gone were those seemingly endless (and at the same time) too short summer days, dipping our feet in Nana and Papa’s pool during adult swim, or Owen begging Nana for a sundae cone from their little snack shack. Or the days, despite everyone’s protests, that we spent inside playing Heroes of Might and Magic on Nana’s PC, or the times where Papa, bless him, took us to the driving range and out for minigolf, thinking one of us might have his talent.

       Hardly a day passed, it seemed, without Owen and Phillip by our side. You always hear traumatic stories about how families fall apart. You hear about people with childhood traumas or some sort of betrayal. Those things do happen. But our family tragedy, if you want to call it that, was far more slow. It was bit by bit, year by year. It was getting more and more invested in our own lives.

       But at that point I could still tell you about Owen’s obsession with black olives and yes, Fairly Odd parents, because then it didn’t matter he was already in junior high. I could still tell you what book Phillip was reading, how training with his physical therapist, Charlie, was going.

       It had been a bad morning, and I was still trying to shake it off, but you immediately went over to Owen and Phillip and started making jokes. Phillip eventually went back to his Percy Jackson book (this was before he immediately went to a cell phone or IPad) but Owen and you were cracking up about just everything, saying things that made our aunt give you guys a side eye and earned a half moon smile from our uncle.

       I nibbled on crackers and cheese, content to wander around the warm house. In the kitchen Papa came up to me, his arms spread wide, wearing his signature red color in a button up shirt.

       Don’t I get a hug?

       Mom says Papa wasn’t always like that, that he’s grown to love hugs more and more as he’s aged. And to be fair, I’ve seen that--even now he seems treasure hugs more than he did then. He gives you a huge bear hug, and even then I sensed how much he loved us, and the morning arguments faded away.

       Mom was in a good mood, less anxious I think, now that we’d arrived. In a year’s time I would understand being anxious about family events--in fact, I would become more anxious than Mom. but we would struggle for years to have empathy for each other.

       Dad had been offered coffee, so of course he was talking to just about everyone. Sans coffee, Dad is about as introverted as me; with coffee he can wear you out with how much he talks. I get that might have to do with the caffeine, but as you know, coffee has never done that for me, even before I switched to decaf.

       Once we’d filled our plates we all went into the dining room. Nana--I don’t Papa would have done it--had the table decorated with a fall bouquet with a sunflower centerpiece. You and Owen started eating too soon, before Papa bent his head for prayer.

       God, thank you for bringing us here today. Thank you for the family and a warm house and all of the blessings you’ve given us. He paused. And thank you that Lynn can cook so we don’t have to eat something I made.

       There was collective laughter as we started eating. I spilled my tea about a minute into the meal. I felt the liquid splash over me, over you, and I kept apologizing, even though really I’d only gotten the two of us wet and you didn’t care all that much that you were wet and now smelled like steeped peppermint tea.

       Afterwards we played basketball out on Nana and Papa’s driveway. We were terrible, even though we were just playing Horse,  and Papa, who we finally cajoled into playing, beat all of us, and I guess that wasn’t too shocking. Misty rain started to fall though, and Papa went in, and eventually our aunt came out and called Owen in, too. Phillip had already gone back in a while ago, presumably to watch cartoons or resume reading.

       But we lingered in that cool misty rain, our bodies still warm from the house and the exhilaration of playing. We only came inside when it started getting dark, when other people started wondering where we’d gone to, when we had little choice but to accept that the moment had passed.

* * * * *

Nana slips into a light jacket, with Mom’s help--she’s been having problems with her shoulder for some time now and even though she pretty much does everything else on her own, she has restricted movement when trying         to get into anything she has to stretch much for.

        I noticed that the goldfish pond outside is nearly empty. Nana sees me glancing at it, and at least we aren’t arguing about fumes and cleaning fluid anymore.

        “I lost most of them.”

        “What happened?”

        “They just died,” she says, adjusting the screen. “I’ll have to get a few friends for them.”

        I noticed that the largest one isn’t there anymore. I know her goldfish just die of old age after a while, but it makes me strangely sad seeing it so empty. I spent summers, and so did you, out on this front driveway with our cousins, shooting hoops (or trying to), splashing water balloons, lawn games. Nana was always out here feeding the goldfish, saying hello to them the way you would a dog. And all these years later she is doing the same thing, only all these years later, at the same time, nearly everything is different.

        “Well, I guess we should get going.”

        She’s right: Mom is impatiently opening the car door; even Papa has slid into the front seat. But there is also a part of me that wants to distill this moment--I’m not even entirely sure why. I just don’t want it to fade. I don’t want it to become a distant memory like so many other times spent here, a memory I cannot touch, emotions I can no longer feel. I want to remember the sun hitting Nana’s cheek as she bends over the goldfish pond, the subtle breeze that tickles my cheek.

        That reminds me that I am alive, that we all are.

        And some days I need that. I need to connect with the past and the present. I need to believe my life is a continuum of experiences, that my life did not end before and it does not end now.

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