The puffy blue pillows on my balcony furniture had whipped off during the night. In the morning, when sunlight lit my way, I pushed in the heavy door, secured its latch, and intended to replace the jostled cushions. Before I could toss one back to its rightful place, I heard a familiar voice. "Come and sit with me, Sis."
It was my brother, Ron, who died Oct. 7, 2018 at the age of 80. Because I often have mythical visits from heavenly loved ones, his appearance didn't startle me.
"You forgot to write about me on the anniversary of my death," he said. He moved over on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him. His voice was sweet, and he had his usual boyish smile, so I was certain he really wasn't angry.
"Dearest," I said, as I settled in at his elbow, "I don't consider your death worthy of note; now if it was your birthday..."
"Just kidding," he said, "just kidding. The real reason for my visit is I could feel you thinking about me during the pandemic and stay-at-home orders. What's that about?"
Before answering, I took a minute to take him in, anxious to grab as much of my big brother as his visit allowed. I knew he relished sunlight ever since he lived for a time in Hawaii, and I worried if it dimmed a bit, he would be on his way.
"Honey," I said, "you're the friendliest person I've ever met! You love everyone; you're a hugger. I can't imagine you managing in a time of masks and six feet separation."
"You're right," he said. "That would be tough." He looked downhearted, as if he could see himself banned from his socializing.
"And being masked all the time! Who could see your dazzling smile?" I said, hoping to cheer him.
He laughed. "True, true," he said.
"Remember when you lived in that retirement home?" I said. "The one you moved into a few months before you..." I didn't finish the sentence because I didn't want to spoil the mood. "Within a day, you knew everyone in the place, and you didn't sit down to dinner until you checked in with each table and glad-handed every resident."
My brother was now relaxing on the bolsters. His chest miraculously brightened with a lei. He closed his eyes to the sun, smiling, perhaps reminiscing about the scene I had just described and enjoying his trick with the garland of flowers.
"And the Toyota dealership where you worked?" I started, but then he sat up, and finished my thought, as proud as a recipient of the Purple Star.
"I was the oldest salesman they had ever hired," he said, and with that his wardrobe quickly switched to his Hendricks's Toyota shirt and khaki slacks. Then we both paused as our twin imaginations took us to the large lot lined with Toyotas of every variety. We could see him escorting a customer to a favorite, and soon returning to the salesroom to seal the deal. Before all was completed, Ron had a new best friend, and the customer held my brother's first published book.
He must have caught my thought of his book because he quickly added, "You were the one who encouraged my writing." I nodded, and smiled. With his first book, "Making Happy," I was his cheerleader and sometimes editor. I was overjoyed at his enthusiasm, honesty, and perseverance in getting that book, and then a second, "The Nebbish," published and distributed to friends and strangers alike.
"So, whom have you reunited with since you moved on?" I said. His beloved wife, Norma, died in August of 2016, and I knew he was grateful to see her again. "Mom, Dad, Norma?"
That same Ronnie smile emerged. "All of the above," he said. "Mom and Norma are always cooking up a storm, and Dad and I are grateful to tuck in. You know there is no diabetes, or sin about being overweight, here. We laugh at all of you earthlings and your crusades against tubbiness."
With that, my brother rose, evidentially anxious to get back to his wife and our parents. "Before you leave," I said, "anything you want me to share with those of us still planted here?
"Well, Ilene and Michael know how much I love them and how grateful I was for their terrific care of me before I was transferred here. But let my kids know I'm always watching over them and making sure they're safe."
And with that, he disappeared as quickly as he had come.
