Geoff at Thanksgiving

I bought you a Wookie mug for Christmas. I intend to fill it with tiny Charleston Chews, preferably frozen, because the corndogs will just get soggy in the time waiting for us to open our presents.

I come to your house - our old house - and we talk about my Kitty that you sheltered for four months until I could get my own place for Her. How she loved on you and hated your kids. How she sprints to the door when I get home after a day of working, volunteering, shopping. Just like a dog. One of your younger ones cried angry tears when I took her home to my place. She thought Little Kitty was hers! Stood there crunched up, not letting me touch her. I could relate because I loved Kitty too.

I look at the bookshelves that take up a wall of our dining room - books that have been meticulously taken down, moved to another wall, and then reassembled just as Dad had them. A memory of Dad, one that threatened to suffocate me when I was younger, towering in your green room. Little toys and your childrens’ books litter the shelves, adding a touch of domesticity that dad’s rarely had.

We talk about stuff we buy - you mainly, these days. The Disney Movie Club, the pins from Disneyland with your Rebel Army emblems, stuff that you’re gonna take offroading tomorrow, come rain or come shine.

I feel a little like I don’t have much to say, for I haven’t bought much and I shouldn’t be buying much anyway. Mainly Christmas gifts and holiday decor for a party that you’re invited to and have pledged your attendance for.

Your wife, my Sister bys our hearts as much as by marriage, is so much easier to talk to. We have shared pasts - feeling like outsiders among our peers and hurt in our 20′s. You, on the other hand, you I befriended throughout my childhood and youth. The kids who didn’t fit in because exuberance wasn’t wanted in our accelerated classrooms - you were my best friend once, again, and over again. Bri, one of my besties like You, Bri Williams, stole some of her mom’s jewelry as a parting gift for me when she was being literally kicked out of our arts program that 6th grade. I can’t imagine how that felt......what she did to soothe herself I’ll never know.

Thankfully, your 6th grade teacher appreciated you. She sent you on errands when you just had to stand up. She liked your creativity. I read a story that Mom keeps in the memory cabinet from that time that you wrote for Mrs. Alwinger - all spaceships and heroes and furry aliens.

I know you like Star Wars over Star Trek, milk over coffee, and kids the world over.

You’re a terrific father and my brother. I just sometimes wish I knew more.