On dresses, cars, and brass instruments

If tears could build a stairway
And memories a lane,
I'd walk right up to heaven
And bring you home again.

  

While Minnesota slowly recovers from a deep freeze, in which we are said to have experienced seven months of unrelenting snow, I am recovering from bitter heartache. Heartache that has thus far spanned two years.

I look around me, and I am inspired to see the way my family and friends have carried on, achieving inspiring new heights and raising beautiful families despite our shared grief. 

Recent events in the U.S. have certainly not made it easy, with children who have violently lost their lives being featured frequently in the daily news. Our society has been hit where it hurts, in our schools, in our communities and in a national marathon. 

For those of us who have lost a child, whether brother, son, grandson, cousin or nephew, these tragedies cut deep.
They remind us of the fragility of life and of our own enduring pain. We mourn for the families who have suffered these losses, even as we continue to mourn losses of our own.

I, myself, felt a renewed sense of dread when I watched a home video taken of the explosion at the Texas fertilizer plant. I cringed as this huge fire, being filmed from a distance, suddenly expanded across miles and hit the camera man in the face. Afterward, the viewer hears a young child's voice begging the camera man to leave.

Maybe that scenario in itself is enough proof we should stop focusing on the negatives. 

It could explain why I got out some old photographs this morning, and began pouring through them, searching for positive memories.

On dresses, cars and brass instruments
Ironically, the first photos I found were of my own childhood. I never thought Mom took many pictures of us as kids, but I guess someone must have, because the embarrassing photographic evidence is there. In old tattered photographs, my older brother is pictured with an ornery smirk, my sister is shown in full-fledged baby cheeks, and I am adorned in a hundred dresses, one for every color of the rainbow — and even, gasp, plaid!

My mother appears in these photos too, as well as my father, who I lost two years prior to the accident. In the photos, my parents are young and slim, and the expressions on their faces hint at their youth. Mom is also wearing dresses, in gentle shades of white and blue, or in flowing floral patterns. 

They are always holding a child in these photos, and in the photos with the twins too, as if being a parent was the thing in life that meant the most.

I had to smile when I found old photos of the car shows we attended growing up. This is where I found my love of antique automobiles. My stepdad, Tom, was a quirky guy — I don't think anyone can dispute that. But he sure knew his way around a Rambler and an old stereo! I remember the first time my sister and I saw his bachelor pad, when he was dating my mother. He had a patio and a huge stereo set, and when left alone, we cranked that thing up as high as it could go and shook the whole apartment!

At the car shows, Sis and I would put on our best face for six hours in a park on a Saturday, and pose in front of our favorite antiques. Then when the twins were born, we would cart them around for the entire day, teaching them everything we knew, from oldies and card games to Slug Bug. I loved those days so much that eventually my first car would be an AMC, a 1981 Concord that I came to call Sloopy. 

The best photos of all, though, were the ones with my twin brothers Thomas and Lawrence. Sis and I don't appear in too many of these, because one of us was usually the one behind the camera. But in these snapshots, a story of love and support is told. The four of us, sisters and brothers, were inseparable. We were almost literally attached at the hip, with a little guy often hitching a ride on our sides.

The memories are too many to count... and they are beautiful! 

Bubbles adorning two baby heads in the bath tub. A toddler sucking his thumb and holding his blankie on one of our laps during a road trip. Two twins hiding high in a cave at Hocking Hills State Park. And Lawrence carrying a baritone as big as his body, while Tommy hollers an incomprehensible "song" and keeps the beat with a stick.

This is what I miss. The positives. The loving relationship of siblings and parents who make life interesting— and so often rewarding— for each other.  

Light a candle
Matt and I lit a candle to mark the two years our loved ones have been gone, just as we did last year. It was a fragile time of tears, silence and knowing looks, but we also lit the wicks for something entirely different. 

Reassurance. 

The warmth of the candle's glow reminded us of two things, above others: How much we loved them, and how much we were loved by them in the time that they were alive. We can still feel the hugs, the smiles and the words "I love you" just as clearly now as we could back then. 

And in that warmth, we spoke confidently to the twins, who were such a model of confidence themselves.

We reassured the boys that we will try our best to go on, and that we will do our best to live the lives they would want us to live. For what is our time here on earth if we do not open ourselves to its beauty, shower one another with love, and share in the positive experiences it has to offer? What is a life not lived?

Every year, I keep coming back to the last words the twins left us, in the form of calligraphy. 
The famous quotes. 

A tale of caution from a confident young Thomas:

"One day your life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it's worth watching."

and, words that little Lawrence could have uttered from his own lips:

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams."