HiStory

“Johnny was smart, you know,”

Grandma said

a thousand times

as she looked into me

with her worn, knowing blue eyes.

“I know Grandma,” I always answered,

but I couldn’t really remember him anymore.

I was only three-and-a-half

when he died.

He wasn’t yet two.

Enough for a memory,

but not enough.

I remember bright, orange hair,

blue eyes, big smile with drool,

and, “Oof black!”

his declaration

as he pounded his thumbs

on the high chair tray.

I remember

watching him while Mommy

hangs wash on the line,

and running to her calling,

“Mommy, Mommy,

Johnny’s turning blue again!”

Then Mommy drops the clean, wet clothes

on the grass and runs to call the hospital.

We rush to the car, and drive fast.

They have the oxygen tent ready

when we get there.

We run past the ladies with the forms.

It is a small hospital.

They know us.

I don’t think this memory is mine,

but the memory I created

to go with the story

told to me so often.

I remember

sitting and drawing

while Mommy goes with Johnny

as they try to fill his blood

with oxygen.

After the first time

I don’t cry anymore

when she leaves me alone.

This must be my memory, because

no one else is there to tell it to me.

And I remember

going to school,

when kids ask if I have

any brothers or sisters,

or if I am an only child.

And I remember

never knowing how to answer.

Over at dVerse Grace asked us to share a part of our family history.  I ended up writing about my brother, Johnny, who was born with Down Syndrome, and died 22 months later from several congenital heart defects that often accompany it.  I thought my mom said he had three separate ones, but I can only remember Atrioventricular Septal Defect (AVSD) and Tetralogy of Fallot.  Both my parents have died, so I really have no one left to ask.