Did you know that you can change a bed with someone in it?
Did you know that you can change a bed with a six-foot, two-inch, two-hundred
pound man in it? Did you know you can change a bed with your hero in it? Did
you know that you can change a bed with all of the strength that allowed you to
develop all of your own signature softness in it? Well, you can. First, wash
your hands and put on gloves, for your protection and for that rare opportunity
to offer protection to the one who took it out on the first few
bullies who tried to leverage your oddness so that it rarely happened
again. Then, you’d ordinarily explain to the one who
taught you how to ski what you were about to do, if he hadn’t slipped into an intermittent
unconsciousness, a next loss that followed continence, speech, mobility, memory
and a genius that twin tumors ravaged inside of his spectacular mind. If he’s
not awake, and you can’t tell your boyhood’s whole world how you remember how
he pushed those guys out of the way in the tunnel collapse at Seabrook nuclear
station, and you can’t tell him you didn’t think it was fair for him not to be
saved, especially in light of that, well, then you roll him onto his side, and beginning
at the opposite side of the bed, remove the tucked-in sheet and roll it in the
direction of Mike, or whoever is shredding your heart on this terrible day. Next, roll a clean sheet out toward the boy who beat you in chess
your first dozen times playing him and then when you finally won, reached
across and shook your hand with a look that told you to have confidence in your
mind, a look of assurance that told you there would be a lot of things
coming your way that you would be good at, whatever the struggles, and whatever
it might be that the rest of the world wouldn’t understand. Then, you roll all
of that strength without glower and
brilliance without condescension over onto his back first, and then onto his
other side and onto the clean sheet. If your brother was as beloved as mine,
you have a helper, and as you are rolling out the clean sheet, she is
pulling back on the old sheet—and the helpers are always “she” in this kind of
delicacy, in this kind of intimacy, aren’t they? Yes. They are. Pull the fresh sheet taut, to
his standards in living, so there are no bumps not smoothed, no errancies not reckoned
with, no problems not solved, no truths not faced, and secure them as he did his children, his wife,
and his mother, sister and brothers, only with what they
call hospital corners instead of the lifetime of deep knowledge combined with
Yankee work ethic that provided an earthly tethering to serve as crucible for
his unending love. Never forget to change the pillowcase where he shall rest
his head. Cover him. Remove your gloves and wash your hands. Then cry. It's that easy.
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| My brother and me. |
