As time goes by

I'm sorry to say that  time has erased some of the details of that day.

I don't remember where I went. I don't remember what I did. I don't remember any of the mundane details of the last day I had a brother.

 I remember the phone ringing in the middle of the night. My mother's stricken voice on the other end of the phone, telling me to let her talk to my husband. I didn't understand why, but I knew it wasn't good.

I remember watching him walk around the room with the phone in one hand, his head in his other. Seeing his face, watching it change. And then him sitting back on the bed and tell me, try to tell me.

"It's Rhett... He was on his way to Grand Isle for the Tarpon Rodeo. ..He was in an accident. ... He was ..."

How I wish now that I had stopped him right there. Had said, "Wait a minute.

Give me a minute.

Give me just one more minute ...

Of a life with a brother."

"Killed."

How I wish you had said, "Wait a minute. Give me a minute. To buckle my seatbelt."

It might have made a difference.

Has it really been 10 years?

So much time has passed.

I had a six month old baby girl that day, the brand new child we had waited for so long, that you saw only a handful of times. Now she's almost as tall as I am. And her only memories of you are photographs and a 15-minute video of you trying to wake her up when she was a week old.

You had two little girls that day. Now you have two grown women. One is a wife and a mother of two. The other is about to graduate high school.

You had a handsome young stepson that day. He is now a father of two little boys. He and they have your last name.

You have two new nieces and another baby on the way. Three grand nieces. Four grand children. A still-grieving wife, and mother.

You've missed weddings and funerals. Christmas mornings. Easter Sundays. Graduations. Band concerts. Football games. Backyard barbeques. Birthdays. Luaus. Family squabbles. Hurricanes. Baseball games. Seafood boils.

And the Saints winning the Super Bowl.

Things you should have seen.Things I'm glad you didn't.


I remember my life before. With a brother who played with me. Put on plays with me. Washed the dishes with me. Opened my Christmas presents with me. Kidnapped my dolls and held them for ransom. Made me be Chopsley.

A brother who teased. Who convinced me that root beer really was made from tree roots. That the stuff the dentist uses to numb your gums was poison. That oysters turn to rocks in your stomach if you drink whiskey. That the boogie man was in our yard.

Who drank vinegar and pickle juice and Tabasco. Straight up. And Budweiser (none of that light crap, either).

A brother who bought me my first drink(s) and tried not to laugh when I threw up.

Who beat up the wrong Cruze brother for throwing a water balloon at me.

Who got really pissed off when one of his friends asked me out.

Who gave me away at my wedding.

Who has become, in our minds and hearts, a dragonfly.


I remember what it was like to have a brother. And I miss it.

To read more about my brother, Rhett, 
Please click: Dragonflies
                    Happy Birthday, Rhett 
                    Common Ground



Submitted to Lovelinks 16. You can link up too!

Dragonflies

It was never my intention to memorialize my brother with a bug.

Oh, he definitely bugged me. I guess most big brothers do at some point or another.

He certainly liked to tease me, to take advantage of my youth and naivete.

He tried to convince me that root beer really did come from the roots of trees, that if a person ate an oyster and drank whiskey it would turn to a rock in his stomach, that if I swallowed the stuff the dentist uses to numb you BEFORE the shot, that you would die.

I nearly drowned in the dentist's chair when I was about 6 years old.

He did weird things. He drank vinegar straight out of the bottle. Tabasco sauce too. And pickle juice.

And when little bitty me fell in the bayou trying to match him in rock-throwing, he took his damned sweet time going to tell my mom. As I awaited rescue he warned me that the alligators and the water moccasins were coming for me. Then he laughed at me when they pulled me out of the mud.

That was my big brother.

Was.

On July 25, 2001, my big brother, Rhett Martin Lyons, left his home in Houma before the break of dawn for his job in Elmwood. After working a full day, he stopped for a beer with a couple of his buddies. Then he got in his car and headed for Grand Isle and the annual Tarpon Rodeo in the rain.

He did not buckle his seat belt.

It was the summer just before my husband, Marty, took over his baseball team, the summer just before my stepson Daniel was to become the starting quarterback. My big brother was excited. He was ready to become a Wildcat fan.

But when the fall season came along, there was an empty seat in the stands where he would have been.

And in the spring.

But although he was gone from our presence, Rhett was never far from our hearts. And as Marty's first season began, we all kind of felt like he had an angel in the outfield. We certainly called on him a lot, looked skyward a lot, prayed a lot. We even sent him balloons on senior day.

Maybe it was so. The 2002 Wildcats went 24-7, with quite a few improbable wins, and made it to the state tournament in New Iberia for the first time -- ever.

And it was at that tournament that I asked for a sign.

Being a first time nervous coach's wife at the biggest game of my husband's life so far, I was looking for one. In between rocking and feeding my then-toddler daughter, my stomach was churning and my palms were sweating for my husband. I was looking for some reassurance that things were going to go well for him.

"OK, Rhett," I said. Aloud. "I know you're here. Give me a sign that you're here."

"Make lightning strike... NO!!! That will hurt somebody."

"Send me a dragonfly."

Dragonflies are harmless little bugs. Don't bite. Rather pretty. Eat mosquitoes. Good bugs.

"Send me a dragonfly."

And no sooner had the thought formulated in my brain than a beautiful blue dragonfly landed on my leg.

My eyes immediately filled with tears, my stomach was immediately soothed and I was immediately reassured.

I caught my husband's eye in the dugout.

"He's here," I said. And he knew exactly what I meant.


The Wildcats didn't win that game, but our family was left with a legacy... and a mascot.


I now have quite a collection of dragonflies in and around my house -- mostly jewelry and garden decor. And friends and family are always on the lookout for more. The whole family has begun to collect them, in fact.

They remind us all of him.

My daughter used to say, "Look! It's Uncle Rhett!" whenever she would spot one.

The following summer Marty's players were trying to shoo one out of his dugout when he realized what they were doing.

"Hey! Stop that. That's my brother-in-law," he said.

Then he held out his hand. The whole team stood agape as the bug landed safely on his palm.

Maybe it is so.

I'm sure some question my equating a bug with a brother.

But I rather like to think of him free and flying, buzzing in and out of our lives, stopping for a while to see what we're up to then moving on to another spot. I certainly like to think of him still being with us.

And maybe it is so.