Deidra Alexander's Blog

(To start from the beginning, check out the Meet Me By the Gate tab)

July 8

Item # 32 – Picture of Cowboy

In the hallway, there is one of Mom’s paintings. It’s of an old cowboy. His face is weathered and worn from decades of sun and wind. But, if you look into his eye, you can still see the sparkle of a young man.

Bryan I want you to have this. When I look in your eyes, I hope to see the young boy again. I know a lot has happened, but I don’t think you could have changed that much. Somewhere the old Bryan still exists.

 ***

 I’ve been thinking about Bryan and Allie and when we were kids.

I remember the time Mrs. Martin accused us of breaking her window. We were nowhere near her house, but Mom made us pay for it out of our own money.

A few days later, we were walking by Mrs. Martin’s house; she was watering her grass with a sprinkler, the old fashioned kind that sprayed water like a fan back and forth across the lawn.

Tick, tick, tick,

As we walked by Bryan noticed the garage door opened.

Tick, tick, tick.

He looked at Allie and me and back to the garage door.

Tick, tick, tick.

Wordlessly, we picked up the sprinkler.

Tick, tick, tick.

And slid it into the middle of the garage.

Tick, tick, tick.

We pulled the garage door shut.

Tick, tick, tick.

Water sprayed the window.

Tick, tick, tick.

The ceiling.

Tick, tick, tick.

The walls.

Tick, tick, tick.

We never talked about it, never said a word, but Mrs. Martin never accused us of breaking another window or much of anything else after that.

That had been the Bryan of my childhood, full of snappy quips. The Bryan who could make everyone laugh. He was a lot like Logan, carefree and funny.

After Mom got sick, he lost that. He stopped laughing. He looked tired, older, like he was wearing an old man’s troubles. Is that what happened? Mom’s illness had been too much for him. Maybe being younger had protected us from a reality that scarred him.

What did that table mean so tied to our childhood, to our Mother? Maybe sending the table was his way of trying to come home again, an apology of sorts.

I’m going to visit him again. Maybe this time I’ll find Bryan, my brother, the one who put sprinklers in garages and shuts the door.