visiting my brother

Yesterday I drove the 3 1/2 hours out to Western Mass. to take my brother out for lunch, in kind of a half-hearted recognition of Easter, a holiday that has hardly seemed relevant to my life for years, since my children were too old to really "need" an Easter basket. But, the world seems to recognize it as a holiday, and knowing the loneliness that accompanies these world-recognized holidays, I tend to want to show some support for my brother and in turn, receive some back from him.

We took a trip to WalMart. He felt he really needed a new vaccuum. I don't relish going to WalMart, but it was surprisingly easy with R. He walked purposefully through the throngs of seemingly stupified people hypnotized by the glitz of material things. I followed him, noticing his worn sneakers with the holes in them. (He assured me in the past that he has other shoes, he just likes wearing these ones.)

As an aside, I should mention that my brother has a mental illness, although I'm not sure what his diagnosis would be today. Over 30 years ago it was schizophrenia, but it might have changed. He seems very normal in most ways, except for the fact that he is reclusive, wears cotton in his ears all the time, and has hardly ever held a job.

Anyway, we got the vaccuum and I persuaded him to pick up a new toilet seat as well. We were in and out of WalMart in record time, and I was amazed. Usually such trips are drawn out and uncomfortable.

Then we went to his favorite diner--pretty much the only place I can persuade him to go out to for a meal. It's a 50s style diner, with posters of Elvis and James Dean on the walls. We ate quite a bit, since I'd decided this was our "Easter dinner." He got a hot roast beef sandwich with gravy and fries and a salad. I had "Veggie linguini" which involved a lot of butter and pasta, but tasted okay. And a salad too. We mostly ate in silence, with comments here and there initiated by me.

At one point I looked at my brother's profile--he was looking out the window. And I noticed his nose hairs--too long. I thought it might be something that could bother me, but it would never be something I would mention to him. He's too sensitive for that and sometimes I feel he doesn't trust me. Then I remembered my father. His nose hairs were long too. I remembered distinctly his nose, large and beautiful to me, and his hands, with the beat-up fingernails--I thought from hammering and building the house I grew up in. I could almost smell my father then, smell the comfort of him. And I was grateful to my brother for reminding me.