Dear Gerry,
My first memory of you was on an Easter Sunday after church. I am wearing my blue dress with the white lace collar, the one I wore in the picture when we visited Uncle George, which means I am six years old. There is a cold breeze when we exit our silver ‘61 Buick. All of us are there: Mom and Dad, Ron, who became the oldest after you died, and Gail, and then me, Stephen, and Michael, the three you never met. I do not hear any human voices, but cars whizz by on the busy road at the other end of the cemetery. A robin with a worm in its mouth sings from a nearby tree. I am on my knees in the wet grass. My hand reaches out to touch the cold gray stone, traces the first letter “G” carved into the rectangular block placed flat in the dirt. Then I move my hand to the right and dig my little fingers into the “E”. On I go until I have felt your full name with my hand. Gerald Hayden. The brother who died the year before I was born. In those days, I thought “dead” meant lost or ran away, but not gone forever. Were you there that day, hovering?
