Adult Only

Freshman girls harbor flower fantasies. In February, these feelings magnify as the 14th approaches and all around there are dorm mates who discuss at length much anticipated bouquets. Young ladies with current male companions are rarely disappointed. Though I hoped to be so remembered, I knew that the guy I longed to call my very own wasn't the flower buying type. And yet, I received a message.

"Delivery for you at the desk."

I scurried to claim my present. A bountiful bouquet of red and white chrysanthemums, beautifully arranged in a heart-shaped vase. Scrolled in gold across the front were the words, "You are my Valentine." I tore open the envelope and found no card inside. Convinced that the sender must be my much admired male friend (not yet having attained the status of 'boyfriend'), I checked the name of the florist shop and walked immediately to its location.

Once inside, I pleaded with the staff to reveal the origin of the flowers. If only I learned from which city the bouquet had been ordered, I'd have my answer. At just eighteen, I could be very persuasive. I may have shed a few tears for effect. Finally, I knew. No college boy had spent his money on this tribute. My sibling, still a high school student, was the source.

At twenty months, I'd welcomed him into my life. I couldn't master his name and began addressing him as 'Bubba.' Quickly the name metamorphosized into 'Brother' and never changed again. I was his 'Sister' always. Quaint, but quintessentially Southern.



He was a gentle person, handsome from birth. Cotton colored hair darkened to a rich brown. Always hirsute, his exhorbitant eyebrows framed an attractive face and years later, a coarse beard required attention multiple times a day. With a radient smile and deeply colored brown eyes, his countenance caused him to be noticed constantly.



As the only son, there were expectations. Living on a farm proffered opportunities to explore the pastures and ponds, mingle with livestock, and appreciate the endless availability of fresh fruit and vegetables. What he couldn't embrace was the life of a farmer. Daddy handled this relevation with dignity and championed a son whose adult interests centered upon fine dining, antiques, opera, elegant clothing and city living.

With all this physical beauty, my brother lacked physical agility. His numerous accidents were almost legendary in the family. I cringe to remember that I once shot him with a BB gun. We were visiting our Georgia grandparents at Christmas time. He'd received the gun as a gift and a group of cousins was outside testing its accuracy. One by one, we aimed at a large paper box near the edge of the yard. What I didn't know, due to darkness and my own neglect, was that my small sibling had crawled into the box. Why he sought refuge in that space remains a mystery. The only good part of the story is that I was a terrible shot and the BBs landed in his chin. They were quickly removed by an adult but shooting practice was suspended permanently.

Another time, Brother was playing with a kid who lived on our farm. They were setting up a tent behind the house. Something happened and a squabble erupted. The friend threw a tent stick and it entered the right eye. Again luck, or poor aim, caused the nail at the end of the stick to pierce the white part of the eye and thus minimize potential damage. I wish I had a photo of the rakish look created by the white eye patch which Brother wore for many weeks.

There were more scrapes including an incident where his foot got tangled in the large wooden barn gate and as it swung wide, bones were broken. Coming home on the school bus one day, he leaned forward and put his face on the iron frame of the seat in front of him. The bus stopped suddenly and a front tooth cracked immediately. For years, this tooth could only be repaired on a temporary basis until his face reached its growth limits and a permanent tooth could be set in the space.

Despite these many traumas, Brother remained a jovial individual. His natural sociability, coupled with that transcendent smile (now slightly altered), ensured a broad circle of friends. His appeal was universal and he was equally comfortable with contemporaries as with those many decades his elder. Somehow he knew just what to say, how to listen cogently, and when to employ his exquisite manners. I envied his suave decorum, gentle demeanor, and ability to laugh with abandon.



Yes, we fought sometimes. Siblings do. I thought I was his protector, he thought he was mine. We were both right.



Our mother began a school photo collage which captured our transforming faces, fashions, and haircuts through the years. Decades beyond these dates, the small pictures have begun to fade slightly. The era's memories remain significant and the oval table which encases the collection sits securely in my guest room.




He tries college and finds it exhilerating. Such freedom unchecked. He fails all his classes, even ROTC. Back home, he works at the family's dry cleaners and laundry. His winsome personality is totally effective in convincing customers to pay their bills. They even seem grateful for having been asked to satisfy these debts. His charm is captivating. One night, he and a group of friends seek some excitement. Walking along the river bluff, they arrive at the town's fountain. Someone must have suggested that adding soap might create a diversion. No problem. He knows just the source. A quick trip to the family's business and he's prepared with industrial strength detergent. Pour it into the fountain, watch for a little while and leave.

This prank might have gone unnoticed and anonymous except that the curious friends decided to return and view their mischief. Unfortunately, they arrived to find the local police coping with a massive mess. The family phone rang in the early morning. It was Brother calling from jail. He needed to have a bond posted for his release. The punishment was a fine to be used to clean the fountain. Lesson learned.





I've graduated, left the farm and the state. He does the same after some years, and finds himself, truly finds himself, in New Orleans. Surrounded by history, music, manners, and magnificent food, he flourishes. Friendships expand as he returns to college and this time, he gets his degree. A new career promises satisfaction and substantial remuneration.



I have a new life and he drives my parents to the west coast to meet my recently acquired family. The three of them are anxious, not sure I've made the right decision. Their concerns are quickly allayed once they see my joyous face and meet my husband and his precocious six-year-old. We are a family, reconstituted, but very real.



He's a busy man, enjoying living in a shotgun house on LaHarpe. On Mother's Day, he visits the farm and helps vaccinate the animals.



And then, he's gone. I'm an only. Bereft of my Brother, broken to my core. The sorrow seeps into my daily life though he left us 32 years ago. I was thinking the other day that I've spent nearly half my years without him. And yet, he's always here. I have only to remember our daughter who carries his name and realize that his legacy is intact.

As a talkative toddler, she'd ask her Grandmother when Uncle Carter was coming back from heaven. She expected him to ring the doorbell at any moment. As an adult, she's intensely proud to share his name and has heard his stories continually her whole life.

I wander around my house and see his possessions. Against the window is a 19th century gateleg table that once resided at his home.



On a shelf, a collection of his antiques add beauty to the room.




When family or friends gather at our dining room table, Brother's china and silverware sparkle. I feel as if he's supping with us still. There are moments when I'm in an airport or a stadium and I hear a deep Southern voice or notice a particularly fine head of coarse dark brown hair, and just for a moment, I imagine that it is he. My mournful mind confuses me and then I realize that the longing lasts forever.

On other days, I ponder how much he would have enjoyed e-mail or digital cameras, would have wept at his city's devastation by a storm called Katrina and how he'd have been completely enchanted with his darling niece. I picture him, ever graceful in gray, yet with taut skin and that enchanting smile. I visit the place where he slumbers eternally and share family news that he's missed. I'm convinced that his spirit has remained a part of my own earthly journey. In just four days, I'll celebrate his birthday and know that somewhere he's counting the candles. And I really promise to try and temper my anger at his life unlived and find solace in being his only Sister.