My Sweet Brother
My earliest memory of my brother was him hanging out on the hill beside the feedlot house where we lived. I would make up elaborate stories with my Barbie dolls there and he would sometimes hangout and watch. He and I were born two years apart; he was born before me the day after Halloween. As I sat at a patio table at UC Davis hospital last July trying to make sense of previous week or so, I couldn’t help but reflect on the last time I’d been in the UC Davis hospital with Robert. It was the most dire challenge I’d witnessed him face roughly 30 years ago when he attempted to end it all by stabbing himself in the heart. I’d just attended Monet exhibit at the DeYoung Museum with friends when I stopped by a gas station with a phone booth outside of Golden Gate Park to let Dave know I was headed home. Yes, this was before we all had cellphones. Dave informed me of the unbelievable reality of what Robert had done. Right after he’d stabbed himself he’d called Mom. Mom immediate cal