Dear John,
I’ve heard that we reimagine, and thus reconstruct, memories every time we recall them.
This means that our most cherished memories are likely also the most distorted, all the more rosy for their frequent polishing. And yet, in constructing the narrative of our lives, perhaps the distorted memory in its current form is more important than the objective truth. But what am I doing, attempting to philosophize? You are the philosopher, not I. So, acknowledging that they may be false, allow me to share some reconstructed memories with you. Unfortunately, in so doing, I must center myself alongside you, as I have not yet acquired your talent for removing myself from the picture.
~~~
In my first memory of you, you are crouching, knees bent—although I believe at the time it pained you to do so—to pet the dog, Kip, in front of the woodworking shop at the farm on Robinson Ridge. Kip had been starved for attention since her puppy days elapsed and Rowan and I gradually lost interest. But there you were, giving her the love she deserved.
Long after you and mom continued down the ridge to visit my grandparents and mom returned to the farm alone, I lay on the trampoline in the dark, staring at the night sky. I knew, without having been told or being fully aware of the implications of what I knew, that something had shifted. Your entrance into mom’s life had fundamentally altered her trajectory. You may not have swept her off her feet in storybook fashion—although perhaps, in a sense, you had—but you were about to take her away from the only life I had known her to have had.
~~~
In our new life, mom existed at the center of a Venn diagram; you on one side, Rowan and I on the other. At first, you lived in the trailer park, while we luxuriated in the McMansion at the end of the road. Then we moved to Blackburn and, at mom’s request, you took up residence in the basement apartment without complaint. This physical distance, and the social distance it implied and belied in turn, was rarely breached. In retrospect, it saddens me to think that you might have intentionally removed yourself from our lives, but the space between us allowed me to observe and appreciate your benevolent presence.
I likely would have resented anyone else in your position, for the rupture they represented if nothing else, but you made resentment impossible. You were so unobtrusive, so kind. Over time, the lack of resentment grew to a grudging—and, eventually, ungrudging—respect. As I learned more about you, you began to emerge from the shadow of my mom’s decision and to exist as an individual entity in my mind.
~~~
What I learned: You owned a bookstore. You ran marathons. You protested and helped people escape the Vietnam war. You left pennies on sidewalks for kids. You saved Brew Week. You left home as a teenager and made your own way thereafter. You washed people’s dishes and cleaned up in exchange for lodging. You set up a desk in an elevator. You caught leaves in fall. You worked doggedly and thanklessly for your clients at TechGROWTH and SEE. You doted on your own kids, and even your partner’s kids, beyond any expectation of good parenting.
~~~
And then there was what you did.
What you did for Rowan and I: You gave the best Christmas presents. You stood outside of shops you didn’t care to enter in countries you didn’t choose to visit. You gave up your bed when I was delivered home comatose from drinking. You did so much more, behind the scenes, than I will ever know.
What you did for mom: You engaged her in thoughtful conversations I could hear in snippets through the vent in the bathroom of the “non-TV room.” You acquiesced to her desire to subsist on salmon and vegetables. You supported her in every sense of the word. You made her happy.
~~~
Several summers ago, you drove me to Blackburn from the theater. As I sat in the Washing Machine, I realized it was one of the only times we’d been alone together. It was slightly awkward, in part due to this fact, but not unpleasant, and I wished we had spoken more often.
In my younger and more hot-headed days, I’ll admit I couldn’t stand your measured, citation-based way of debating. It was like Socrates himself had deigned to return from the dead and I, like the Athenians he questioned, was being humiliated for my ignorance. Really, I was simply disgruntled due to my inability to “win” the argument. Now, I’ve finally gained enough distance from the required readings of my days as an undergrad to engage with some of the works you know and love on my own terms. Perhaps, had I done so earlier, I would not have been so dismissive of your philosophical probing.
~~~
So many of my memories of you are not memories at all, but rather images refracted through mom’s lens and superimposed onto the backdrop of my own life. Over the years, especially since I’ve been away, she has sent countless stories and photos of you. Photos of you nursing beers in dark bars with mood lighting. Photos of you in exotic locales looking very much yourself. Photos of you at the endless parade of annual fundraisers. Photos of you looking slightly disgruntled, when knowingly photographed alone, but content when caught on camera unawares with your grandkids or at mom’s side.
~~~
Thank you.
Thank you for the ones. Mom failed, time and time again, to find gifts that would please me, but you succeeded effortlessly. Not just with the ones, which I took to college, reveling in my roommate’s surprise and subsequent jokes about where I might have gotten them, but with all your presents, from Etsy finds to gadgets.
Thank you for letting me into Blackburn when I arrived after mom’s bedtime and somehow became stranded outside.
Thank you for showing us Ann Arbor, Detroit, and the life you lived before you came into ours.
Thank you for the jambalaya. You made it one Christmas and it was heavenly. Also, thank you for the restaurant recommendation in NOLA.
Thank you for the pearls of wisdom you spliced into everyday conversation.
Thank you for being such a resolutely positive force for good in mom’s life, and Rowan’s and mine.
Thank you for perennially giving. To us, to your family, to your community, to charities and organizations you believe in.
Thank you for persisting, even when I never said thank you.
~~~
I haven't done a great job showing it, but I'm glad you've been a part of my life. And I know I'm far from alone in this sentiment. Despite your relatively short time in Athens, you’ve left an indelible impression on the community. I only know a fraction of the good you’ve done in your work life, but even I am not unaware of the impact you’ve had, although I know you’d be the last to acknowledge it. As I strive to become a less self-centered and more dedicated individual, I will take cues from you. If/when I have kids, I will give them ones.
Your honorary and honored step-daughter,
Lark
