Published September 20, 2005
The last time I ever saw my brother was when we left to go play night games. He was wearing his Back to the Future jacket our mother had made for him, and—to be honest—I was mad about it. I thought the jacket was stupid and got tired of seeing him wearing it day in and day out. Plus, it wasn’t cold enough for a jacket. I fussed at him but he wouldn’t relent and leave it behind. So we set off on our bikes, the girl next door standing on our porch with our sister, watching us go. I’d been so focused on that jacket that I forgot to tell her goodbye.
We rode our bikes down the driveway and through our neighborhood, until the street took us to the main road. I was faster than Davy, but I could hear the whir of his pedals just behind me. He was humming the Back to the Future theme song, “The Power of Love.” To this day if that song comes on the radio, I quickly change the station. I can’t bear to hear it because it takes me back to that moment.
It was under a mile from our neighborhood to the field, so we made it there quickly. The sun was beginning its slide from the sky as we arrived. We parked our bikes where other kids had left theirs at the seam where the road met the field. We hadn’t said anything directly to each other since we left the house, so I felt I should say something before we separated. Something an older brother would say. So I said, “Be careful tonight.” And Davy, still mad at me, grumbled an “Ok” before scampering off to find his friends.
I am ashamed to admit it now, but I didn’t watch him go. I quickly turned to find my own friends, eager for fun, for an adventure. It was just an ordinary moment in time: two brothers riding their bikes to meet their friends to play games in the dark. On any given night we could’ve gone to that field, then come right back home again, dirty, tired, and happy. But that’s not what happened that night.
And I’ve lived with it every moment since.