It was my mothers wedding day -- a hot July morning in a small stone church in the foothills of Virginias Blue Ridge Mountains. She was 60 and never more radiant as she opened this new chapter in her life. Outside the church, Mother called us together for a few serious words. Go see Grandma now, she said. Dont be upset if she doesnt know you. Strokes and heart disease had left my 89-year-old grandmother lying crumpled and uncomprehending in a nursing-home bed. As I drove through town, I looked around at my passengers. Here we were, the grandchildren: a banker, an entrepreneur, a musician, a lawyer, a journalist. And next to the window in the back seat, sitting quietly, was Page. How would this affect him? Probably not at all. He would never understand. Page, my younger brother by four years, has been brain-damaged from birth. He does not speak, cannot hear and sees poorly through his remaining eye. He stopped growing when he was five feet tall and struggles against obesity. A wall of autism shuts him away from the outside world. He spends most of his time lost in his own musings, nodding, laughing, clucking and crying at a pageant only he can see. Growing up, his brothers played football, drove cars, made friends and dated pretty girls. Page stayed home, entertaining himself on a rope swing, staring at television or playing with a flashlight -- his lifelong fascination. One by one, the rest of us went off to school, got jobs, married and moved away. Page traveled to dreary institutions and rehabilitation centers, where he learned the basics of reading and using tools. Now 34, he has a room in a private home and a job with a small workshop for people like him. He is on his own, and at last he is happy. But it wasnt always this way. During his teens, Page struggled with the emotional overload of adolescence. Seized by fits of anger, he would burst into uncontrollable tears, rake his fingernails down his face until his cheeks bled or, frustrated by newly forming cataracts, jab at his eyes with pencils. He passed through several distinct phases, each marked by a peculiar ritual. First there was ground-kissing. Every so often, for no apparent reason, he would stop in midstep, drop to his knees and give the floor or sidewalk a long, passionate kiss. Wiping the dirt from his lips, he would calmly stand up and, with an air of accomplishment, continue on his way. Ground-kissing gave way to spinning in place. From a sitting position, Page would suddenly stand up, twirl around as if he were unwinding himself from an invisible string and then, satisfied, take his seat. He whirled three times -- never more, never less. One Sunday in church, Page decided to unravel during the sermon. First, a rustle of papers and clothes. Then he stood, knocking a hymnal loudly to the floor. All eyes turned to investigate the disturbance. Children gawked, bewildered. I stared at the church bulletin, my face burning. For years, my reaction to Pages behavior was embarrassment, anger, resentment. Why him? Why me? I was sure he saved his most humiliating stunts for when we were in public. People stared. Page was strange. Did they think there was something strange about our whole family -- about me? As I got older, however, I began to understand that he had no control over his actions, that I could not judge him as I judge others. He wasnt trying to be difficult or strange. He was simply lost, never to be found. As he drifted further away, I gave up trying to recover the brother I had been denied. Shame and anger turned into acceptance. In time, if I caught anyone staring at the frowning, ducking little fat man with hearing aids in both ears and pockets bulging with flashlights and magnifying glasses, I stared back defiantly. Just before we left for the nursing home, Mom had penciled the words VISIT GRANDMA for Page in large letters on a napkin. Yet no one expected him to grasp our purpose, to understand that this might be our last visit. As I drove, other memories floated through my mind: memories of 80-year-old Grandma, arms like sticks, pushing her old power mower up the slope of her back yard, dismissing able-bodied volunteers with a shrug. Grandmas thin, shaking fingers carefully unwrapping Christmas presents to avoid tearing the paper, which she folded neatly by her side. And, of course, talking. Always talking. The sound of Grandmas voice accompanies every memory of her. She spoke not in sentences or even paragraphs, but in entire chapters, convoluted and strung together by breathless ands buts and anyways We seldom asked questions for fear of opening the faucet. Instead, we listened, playing polite audience, nodding at appropriate moments even as we calculated how to steer her back to the subject (if we could remember it) or blurt out a quick thought of our own. Oh, I know I talk too much, she would sometimes sigh. Your mother tells me I do While Grandma could not listen and Page could not talk, they understood each other perfectly. In his silent fortress, Page was unaware of the impenetrable wall of words Grandma built around herself. She kissed him and smiled at him and, more important, accepted him just as he was. She never showed disappointment that he was not normal, but rather regarded him with fascination, patience and warmth. One day Page broke a flashlight and brought it to her, hoping she could fix it. I remember her perplexed, earnest face as she fumbled with the cheap plastic gadget. She poked and wiggled the thing and finally, looking sorrowful, shook her head and handed it back to Page. He walked away, to return a few minutes later and try again. She fumbled some more, then gave it back; it was still broken. The next morning Grandma drove to the store and bought him a new one. We arrived at the nursing home and stepped into her room. The strokes had left Grandma trembling and unresponsive. The hollow, gaping mask that stared up from her pillow was the face of a wizened stranger. Her mouth hung open. Her wide misty eyes blinked and stared but appeared not to see. I patted her small, frail hand, and my mind filled with images from a not-so-distant past. This very hand used to produce steaming loaves of the best bread on Gods earth. This patient, loving hand didnt stop waving from Grandmas front porch until our car, packed with grandchildren, disappeared around the corner. Now lying limply by her side, her delicate, cool hand felt so soft I was afraid I might accidentally hurt her. We stood around the bed, smiling uncomfortably, mumbling everything would be all right. My older cousin was the most at ease. They treatin you all right in this place, ol girl? he asked. I watched her face closely for a sign of recognition. Nothing. Silence didnt suit Grandma. Stripped of her verbal armor, Grandma seemed exposed, vulnerable and -- as I realized with sadness -- suddenly approachable. For the first time, I was free to talk all I wanted. But I could think of nothing to say. We love you, Grandma, I said finally, wondering if I was reaching her. My words hung in the air, sounding distant and insincere. Page was standing quietly next to the window, his face brilliant red, tears streaming from his eyes. Just then, he pushed through the group and made his way to the bed. He leaned over Grandmas withered figure and took her cheeks gently in his hands. Head bowed, he stood there for an eternity, cradling her face and soaking her gown with his tears. Those of us with healthy ears were deaf to the volumes being spoken in that wonderful, wordless exchange. I felt a rush of warmth deep inside me. It surged upward like an inexorable flood, filling my eyes until the room melted in a wash of colors and liquid shapes. As the picture blurred, my perception snapped into brilliant focus. How wrong I had been about Page. Far better than the rest of us, he knew the true meaning of our visit. He knew it perfectly because he grasped it not with his head but with his heart. Like a child unrestrained by propriety or ego, he had the freedom, courage and honesty to reach out in pain to Grandma. This was love, simple and pure. I saw that Pages condition, for all the grief it brings, is in one sense a remarkable and precious gift. For among the many things my brother was born without is the capacity for insincerity. He cannot show what he does not feel, nor can he suppress urgent emotion. Inside him is a clear channel straight to the center of his soul. As I stood next to him, consumed by his expression of unselfish love, I stopped wondering why Page could not be more like me. At that moment, I wanted to be more like him. We kissed Grandma, one by one, and slowly filed out of the room. I was the last to leave. Bye, Grandma, I said. As I turned to look at her one last time, I noticed her lips come together, as if she was trying to speak. Somehow, if for an instant, she mustered the strength to say good-by. Thats when I knew Page had reached her. That afternoon by Grandmas deathbed, when none of us knew what to say, my speechless brother had said it all. # ito ung pra sa declamation ko!# MEMORIES
Posted on: Sun, 06 Jul 2014 06:08:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015