Tender-hearted

I thought I'd come to terms with my brother Ben dying. The intense, jabbing pain and debilitating bursts of grief that marked the early days and weeks have changed to a duller discomfort. I think about him all the time and wish he were still here. I miss him, certainly, but every passing day gets me a little more accustomed to living with his loss, to the point I don't even acknowledge any pain -- it's just how it is. (It struck me just now that I used the phrase "living with his loss" instead of "living without him.")

Sunday we had my parents and brother Matt over for Mother's Day dinner. Elise, all of 7, launched into a story about herself with, "When I was a little kid . . . " We immediately all laughed. Ben, the fourth child in our family (and eight years my junior), was legendary for peppering our dinner talks with things like, "Hey, Jenni, remember when you were a baby and you did . . . ?"

It was my mom who voiced what we were all thinking when she likened Elise's perception to that of our dear brother. I believe it was the first time since Ben's death that I saw his name come out of her mouth while shaped as a smile. It was a good moment.

I thought the peace I've been feeling lately meant I'd turned the corner from reeling unexpectedly. I thought I'd shored up my heart sufficiently from being repoked.

I was wrong.

Today I passed my town's cemetery coming home. I drive by it often, and usually without thinking twice, since it is on one of the main roads to my house. Today I weaved through a funeral procession as it crossed in front of me to enter the gates.

Oh, how sad, I thought, but still didn't personalize the experience. That is, not until I saw the pearl-colored hearse. Something about that sight, the color so similar to the vehicle of my brother's last car trip, made me instantly break down.

So quiet was my eruption of tears that my backseat passengers didn't even notice. I wanted James to interrupt with some random childish question but instead was left with my thoughts and the focus of the drive.

In less than a minute I could see my college track star neighbor jogging up the hill. I could tell it was him even far from the back because of his extremely tall, lean frame.

He, too, lost a brother this winter. I was jolted by all these images, one on top of the other, and what they represented to me. The cemetery. Someone's loss. Mine, and that of my neighbor, who was running. Climbing steep terrain. Moving forward.

Only when I got close enough to verify that it was indeed my neighbor could I read the black text on the back of his gray T-shirt: "REMEMBER."

And so I've been thinking all day. The best way to exercise the heart is not to close it off or shield it, or to think you're beyond being hurt anymore. It doesn't mean thinking we're strong because maybe instead we're numb. It means still loving, ever expanding, ever contracting, draining and filling.

Just as important as remembering my brother is remembering how my heart hurt when I lost him.