A tribute to my brother.
Thanks for reading it.
Petunia

Copper Trees

The foliage in New England was a spectacular sight that October, and I appreciated each leaf as the train headed south towards the city. A potpourri of color covered the landscape, as if nature had dotted the treetops with bright drops of paint. Sugar maples flamed with reds and yellows, flamboyant against quiet evergreens and copper oaks. The sun splashed their vividness against the blue canvas of sky, creating yet another masterpiece. I gained a deeper understanding of the word “magnificent” and tried to breathe in the spirit of the day, tuck it away in my soul. I'd need images like this to help me through some difficult times ahead. Where I was going, there was no color.

In the city, the subway chugged along the narrow cobblestone streets of Boston. Historic brick homes stood proud, the faint aroma of blue blood barely detectable beneath the tall buildings that scraped the sky. The tempo and diversity of the city normally invigorated me, but today I found them irritating. Outside the grimy Plexiglas window, people scurried about, like ants in a hostile colony. Their eyes reflected the chill of concrete and steel. Clutching brown paper bags, drunks staggered on the corner. Weather-beaten palms outstretched, they begged for change which they slipped into pockets of their urine-stained pants. A few ruddy faces looked vaguely familiar, they reminded me of people I had left in my past. Not all of my past was painful, I reminded myself, as I peeked into the window of my childhood.

My fondest memories revolved around the changing seasons. I lived in a land of make believe, where I raised a fine family of dolls and spent a lot of time traveling the world. In the winter my dolls and I skied the Alps, swooshing down mountains racing for the Gold. Then one cold, blustery day, an avalanche buried one of the girls. After my brother, Brian, dug her out, he noticed she was suffering from a severe case of frostbite. He suggested we amputate. When I finally stopped screaming, he charged me a nickel a limb and one more for her head. The entire rescue operation cost me a quarter.

Spring awoke with tiny buds, eager to burst into summer's cool shade. The girls and I sat under the cherry tree, drinking tea and chatting with the Queen, who, by the way, did not eat mud pie. Summer brought us to the beaches of Hawaii. The girls turned out to be pretty good swimmers, all making it back to shore after Brian taught them to body surf by tossing them fifteen feet out to sea. I heard some discussion about the use of rubber bands and rocks next time. When I finally stopped screaming, my mother gave me an old Rubbermaid dishpan, which I turned into a very popular resort. All the little mothers could bring their plastic children to swim.

Then it was fall. Apple cider, candy apples, apple pie. In the orchards we picked our own. Warm days and cool nights gave the trees a healthy glow. A hint of gold, a rustle of red, the leaves shined like new copper pennies. I pretended I was the Jolly Green Girl with a super-sized box of crayons, and I colored the world a little different every day.

Each year when the trees reached their peak, one brave leaf would jump first and slip quietly to the ground. One by one the others followed, still vivid with life, until one strong gust carried them high, and sent them dancing to the music of the wind. Some chose a waltz to make their gracious departure, while others tangoed to the rhythm of the creaking branches. I felt sad they had to die; they were beautiful. I remember how Brian laughed when I asked him to help me paste them back on, but he took the time to explain that if leaves never died, there'd be no room for new ones. Then he helped me gather the prettiest ones. I took them to school, pressed them flat, then pasted them on a cardboard tree where I hoped to keep them that way until Thanksgiving.

The high-pitched screech of brakes announced my arrival, and the window to my childhood slammed shut when the subway door whooshed open. My feet hit the pavement and I took a deep breath of reality. I trudged up the steep hill with the courage of a coward, my body pushing forward, my mind pulling me back. I hoped this trip would be easier than the last. Two months ago, I had suffered the sting of an emotional slap when I entered the hospice for the first time. His appearance and the gray world in which he lived left me seconds away from insanity. He was three-quarters dead, recognizable only by his bright eyes. It would be impossible for him to look any worse now.

The first thing I saw when I entered the lobby was the metal sculpture of a thin copper tree, adorned with leaves of gold, silver and bronze. A welcome focal point, this three-foot work of art was delicately placed in the center of a round oak table. Sunlight beamed through the window, illuminating every leaf, making them shimmer with a life of their own. Intrigued, I walked over and touched one. It was engraved with beautiful script, the letters flowing in an upward curl. I began to read this leaf and the next. My heart sank. My jaw locked. The message was clear: this shiny, ugly tree was gleaming with names of the dead.

I pushed the button for the elevator over and over. I had to get away or scream. Tap-tap-tap it didn't work. I held my finger on it, come on, let's go, hurry up. When the doors finally opened I fell inside, bent over and held my stomach. The climb lasted just long enough for me to stand up straight and swallow back bile.

I stepped into an overcast room and went in search of my brother. What I found instead was a frail, transparent skeleton asleep in a wheelchair. To cushion his protruding bones, pillows had been placed under him, behind him and one on each side. A navy blue ski cap covered his recent baldness and a brightly colored afghan wrapped a cocoon around him. I was amazed to find myself still standing and not on my knees where I thought I had dropped, stunned by the ravages of AIDS. Pieces of past conversations, mixed with music and prayer, swirled inside my head. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust - to everything, turn, turn, turn - your Daddy's gone to heaven to be with God - there is a season, turn, turn, turn - it's God's will, it's God's plan-and a time for every purpose under Heaven.

I learned a lot about strength and courage in those final days of Brian's life. He faced the inevitable truth with dignity, as his melancholy smile grew weak. His spirit, alive in those big brown eyes, became a part of me. As he drifted off to sleep, I left him with a kiss and a piece of my heart. I turned and walked away. In the lobby something shiny caught my eye. Now dimming in the afternoon sun, the copper tree seemed less threatening, and I was drawn to it as if in a trance. Powerful words demanded my attention - in honor, in memory, with love. My son, my mother, my brother. I wiped my tears, paid my respects, and stepped outside. A brisk gust of wind swirled a pile of fallen leaves, and I watched them dance as I took an empty step towards the rest of my life.