Dearest Daughters,
I have a fantastic memory. And I remember oh so vividly the day that a bush swallowed your Unkinan (Uncle Kevin) in one horrific bite.
The adults were inside. It was a sunny day in Oakland. Unkinan and I were playing on Super Auntie M’s front porch. My baby brother, the spider monkey that he is, was climbing on the porch railing.
All of a sudden, he fell backwards, off of the railing, into a GIANT bush. I reached, grasping for his hands, trying to pull him from the clutches of death. My efforts were in vain, the bush devoured him, his four (five?) year old body falling deeper and deeper into the vegetative abyss.
I decided to call for reinforcements: the adults.
I tell you now, when you’re a kid and having a moment of crisis, adults are GOOD FOR NOTHING.
They rolled their eyes, shrugged their shoulders, let out hearty guffaws, not understanding the gravity of the situation.
“A BUSH IS EATING MY BROTHER!!!”
I don’t remember how Kevin felt about the situation. I doubt he was crying or even the slightest bit concerned. He was probably picking bugs off of the leaves and eating them as he nestled further into the branches.
The adult retelling of the story, if you ask Super Auntie or Lolopop, was that Kevin was never in danger, that he led me on and that I grossly overreacted. Also, that this was a common occurrence in our childhood together.
Another time, while at my grandparents’ cabin up near Mt. Lassen, he jumped off of a deck railing into five feet of snow. Only his head and arms were visible above the snow. He was stuck!
As a child, I loved your Unkinan to the ends of the earth (still do!). I was also mean and manipulative, as older sisters tend to be. So, anytime he was in danger, my guilt for every mean thing I had ever done to him came rushing to the surface. I’d swear that I’d never take him for granted again, if he would just live through this, dear God. My poor, precious, baby brother! I repent. Forgive me, Jesus. Forgive me, Kevin!
I ran inside to tell the adults that Kevin was stuck in the snow.
Rolled eyes, shrugged shoulders, hearty guffaws.
FINE, adults. You don’t believe me? You don’t want to help us? Then, I guess this really would be my moment of redemption before God, Kevin and those adults more content to drink their hot chocolate inside by the fireplace than to rescue their youngest child from the death grip of hypothermia.
Being city dwellers, we knew little about snow safety. (For future reference, girls, swim, don’t dig yourself out of snow.)
I recruited our German shepherd, Katie, and we began digging Kevin out. But, as you can already guess, we managed to compact the snow down around his legs even more and then he was really stuck.
We were probably outside in the snow like that for at least fifteen hours. Okay, maybe not, but it seemed like it. Katie and I collapsed next to Kevin’s upper body, sobbing from exhausting, frustration and the fear that I would lose my best friend forever. He would die there in the snow and it would be my fault for not saving him, for not stopping him from jumping off the deck railing, for being a mean and bossy sister. If I was a kinder, more accepting, less controlling person, he wouldn’t have felt the urge to jump, to fly, to experience freedom from my oppressive regime.
Then again, he was a little boy. And little boys jump off of things.
I think the only reason that Lolopop eventually came along with a shovel was because it was getting dark.
Seriously, people? And you call yourselves parents?
Babybel and Danjo, I hope that you, despite your quarrels, psychological manipulation and disagreements, love each other with a fervor that knows no limits, no threat too large, no bush too hungry.
Love,
Mommy
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