You liked music..

In the third grade, watching your sister play piano, you decided you wanted to learn piano too. So, we  enrolled you with Ms Galen, right there on Topanga, and dropped you off every Monday evening, right before dinner, for your half-hour lesson. The first evening you returned excited, telling Pia that in no time you and she could play a duet.

On subsequent evenings, Miss Galen sent notes home, written right on the book, with instructions to practice more. You sat and practiced when Dad or I or Pia reminded you to do so.

On your first recital, nine months later, you bowed at the audience and played your piece with confidence. You had seen such recitals for a few years, and you admired the little ones who could barely reach the foot pedals. You thought any day, the piano could be conquered.

When Michael began taking piano lessons with Miss Galen, your enthusiasm returned.

But you stopped piano when you reached Junior High, and there was nobody home by then to see that you practiced most days. It was a busy time for me, having just started my job as principal in the Antelope Valley I got home late most evenings.

In Junior High you took up flute and played it for a couple years until you needed braces, and could no longer work the flute.

Later, in college, you picked up guitar, and then got a gift of a special guitar from Mike Connoway nephew of Billy Strayhorn, the music writer and arranger for Duke Wellington. Mr. Connoway told your Dad that as long as you were interested you could keep that guitar.

Here, in this picture, I see you play with Michael, who ended up becoming a professional musician and musicologist, encouraging you to stay with music.

We were glad to find the Connoway guitar among your possessions. 

The last time we saw you

Brian posing next to a skeleton at a museum in London, during  a stopover visit from his trip to India  in February of 2011. His last profile picture on Facebook.

Brian and Pia, his sister. He and Janet had visited her in Eugene, Oregon, and this picture shows the Willamette Bridge behind them, the same bridge where they all danced on the very same night.

Our last view of Brian is this and the next one, Brian and Butters down on the floor at our cottage in Port Orford, taking a nap after July 4th parade and lunch in Port Orford.

We had never seen him happier.

Happy 33rd Birthday Brian!

Brian, July 2011
a week before the accident.
a man
in love.
Happy Birthday, son.

Learning Lessons.

Port O'Call, Southern California, St. Vincent's Bridge, Long Beach.

We talked about you yesterday
the time you sped down the Simi Freeway
from a job that went sour
and got a speeding ticket.

You were polite
and thoughtful in the Judge's chambers
opening the door for me
holding the chair before I sat down
contrite with your whole body
choosing your words carefully.
The Judge studied your demeanor
and gave you a pass
allowing you to drive
for work and school and community work stint
at the local golf course.

You didn't mind the hard work
soon scouring old shops for good clubs
getting friends to join you in
learning a new sport
in the place where you were making amends.   

Canoe trip.

Quite often-mostly in summer- as I comb these beaches,  I see someone your size, six-four, with a lively dog, walking the shore. Down this path you and Butters ran up the knoll on the left and then disappeared at the mouth of Lake Garrison.

One summer, you and a friend were planning a canoe trip to the beach at about ten in the morning. It was way in the afternoon  when you finally took the canoe late across the mile or so space that separates our house from the beach,  the wind making it hard to paddle to the ocean by now. You worked hard, and I could tell, sitting on the deck, and spying through the binoculars, that the wind was making you work even harder than you had anticipated.

Then, I watched as you combed the beach for what seemed like an eternity. I kept hoping you had realized that winds don't disappear; that winds would make the return trip more treacherous.

An hour later, I could see you and your friend paddling against a strong current, and making little progress. Then, you disappeared from my viewfinder and I held my breath in anticipation.

Before I decided to send for help, before I warned your father of your demise, knowing how proud you were, you both walked in the front door, tired and disappointed, and asked Dad to help you retrieve the canoe back in a cove, surrounded by reeds. The three of you had quite a time getting that canoe, dragging it out toward the path that led to the parking area where the suv was waiting.

Cat people.

First, Samantha.

When I picked you up at nursery school, you were barely a toddler, still in diapers, Samantha had  spent the day

with you, in your pockets.  She was the runt of the litter. The rest of the babies had been selected by other families, earlier in the day. Samantha was the last one, and you volunteered to take her home with you even before I arrived at the end of the day to pick you up. 

That night, and every night, she slept with you, suckling on your thumb, probably too young to be separated from her mother. Through the years, she hid for everyone, but came out when you called her. When the earthquake pushed us out of the crumbling house, when the place was turned upside down with a new foundation and new buildings, Samantha found her spot in the garage and wintered there, coming out for you every morning when you walked back to the construction site to feed and water and play with her before and after you went to school.

Samantha was eighteen when she died in a car accident.

You had grown up together.  

A friend brought you Newkie.

Newkie and I talk about you every morning and every evening when she cuddles up in bed with me, just the way she cuddled up with you. 

Into the Universe.

That telescope

waiting in the living room

the lens loose and grimy

the connections flimsy

and hesitant

told me 

that soon

you'd have it all down on the ground

in little pieces

a puzzle

you craved to

reconstruct

because

your goal

always

was 

to 

look at the universe

as your playground

not that you had more time

or more skills

or more dedication.

You just enjoyed 

the beauty

present in

intricate puzzles.