This morning my dogs didn't get me up; I got them up. It was close to the time when Bill usually begins inching his nose toward mine on the pillow. That's his way of subtly letting me know he's done sleeping. He's very polite. But I woke up around 3:00 a.m. and was unable to return to my wandering in the land of Nod . . . you know, just east of Eden?

I wasn't dwelling on a single issue when I opened my eyes; normally that's what awakens me. You've been there--you wake up at 2 a.m. remembering you'll be having a meeting with your boss that day, or an interview, or thinking of something you'd been putting off. But this morning my thoughts were a jumble of bits and whisps, of good and bad, of right and wrong, of mistakes and successes, of people alive and dead.

So I got out of bed and the dogs looked at me with that look dogs get that seems to say, "Oh boy! We love you because you're nice to us and feed us and rub our ears! So where's the food?" Bill and Monte (Billings and Montana) and I went downstairs; I gave them their feed and made my coffee, petted the cats and took the dogs outside when they were done eating. The weather this morning in Ohio is, I believe the term would be 'balmy.' And so am I, usually, but this morning only the weather was balmy. This being midweek, the partyers and dealers are not yet causing the police cars and ambulances to turn on their sirens, there is very little wind, and too early for much traffic on my street. It was quiet enough for me to hear the bells from the church nearby that mark the hours and quarter hours like Big Ben. And while I sat on my front porch listening to the quiet, I began thinking about my brother Jon.

Jon was about a year and a half older than me, but when we were small people asked if we were twins because we both had red hair and freckles. We hated our freckles and Jon hated his hair. And being typical siblings, we hated each other, off-and-on, until the day he died on December 19th, 1991. The only time I can remember calling a truce with him when we were children was the day we were of like minds on running away. I can't remember exactly what preceded our temporary comradery, no doubt our mother had decided to punish us for some minor infraction. No, it must have been worse than that because he and I were earnestly trying to develop a flight plan. In the end, of course, we realized we could go absolutely no where and survive, so we returned to our usual pattern of nudging and name-calling.

But when Jon died, I was surprised by my level of devastation. I still am. So were a lot of people. I think that would have surprised him--or did surprise him. The really tragic thing about Jon's death is that he carried that same genetic marker that many in our family carry--the dreaded suicidal depression. He wasn't a crying, melancholic drunk, as was I. At almost all times he gave the appearance of being in total charge of his life, but he also wanted to be in charge of his death. I hadn't remembered this until just this moment, but he once said he didn't believe he'd see his 30th birthday. He made it to 42, but God alone, and now Jon, knows how. Jon began telling our sister Carol and me that he believed he could control his soul's departure on a permanent level. He read Carlos Castaneda books until they fell apart and he'd go get new copies. That's an exaggeration, and I don't want to give the impression that Jon was a fanatical kook. He was calm and relatively quiet unless he had to fix a car or the plumbing and the broken item refused to cooperate, then he swore like the sailor he'd been. When he was funny he was an absolute scream. Sometimes even now I'll see something on television that makes me laugh and I can hear Jon's reaction in my head.

Jon lived with my husband and me and my daughter, and the night he died I happened to be at home rather than with my drinking buddy, Carol, getting smashed. Jon came home from his 2nd shift job and went into the kitchen to make coffee and something to eat. I was right outside the kitchen door, sitting at the table renovating my daughter's old doll house to give to a charity drive for Christmas. I heard the water running; he always let it run for a minute so that it would be cold enough to put into the coffee maker. But the water ran, and ran, and ran. After listening to the water for about 10 minutes I thought, "What the hell . . . ?" and went into the kitchen. Jon was on the floor in front of the sink. At first I thought something was wrong with the plumbing and that he was down there to fix it, but the cabinet doors weren't open. Then I momentarily thought he'd fainted. Jon had rheumatic fever as a child and consequently (we think) would occasionally faint. So I ran over to him and tried to shake him awake, but he was limp, like a ragdoll. He felt as if his bones had disintegrated and I knew he wasn't breathing. He was grey. I screamed for my husband and called 911. Ron stayed on the phone with 911 while I tried to remember my CPR instructions, but to no avail. When the paramedics arrived I went out onto our front porch and kept repeating, "Please God! Please God! Please God!"

In the end, all who knew Jon well agreed that when he saw that chance to escape opening up, he latched onto it like a life preserver and refused to let go. He loved us, but he'd never really been comfortable here.

Jon came to me twice in dreams. The first time I was asleep on the couch which was to the left of "Jon's chair." He had a recliner in the corner of the living room where he usually parked. On a shelf next to that chair he kept a small cedar box containing odds and ends, his Yahtzee dice, and his little metal pipe, and his lighter. Yes, he was a social dope smoker, when he could get it. He'd come home from work, take a couple of hits and say to me (if I was on the couch), "What movie do you want to watch?" He and I had similar taste in films so I usually didn't care. Alfred Hitchcock's Rope was always one of our favorites. I wasn't able to watch it for many years after Jon died--that and Amedeus. Now that I think about it, I don't think I have watched Amedeus since Jon died. Anyway, the night after he died, I fell asleep on the couch and I dreamed I was awake and heard movement from behind my head. I was frightened and slowly turned around to find Jon sitting in his chair. He was doing all the same stuff he did when he'd come home from work. I just watched him, my eyes bugged and mouth open. He seemed to be ignoring me, then he got up and went to his keyboard to practice his pieces. He'd begun taking piano lessons about a year before he died. He practiced and then came back to sit down and said, "What movie do you want to watch?" I sat up and said, "Jon, you're dead." It was the weirdest damn thing. He acted like someone caught in the act of doing something wrong who then pretends not to be doing anything wrong, and said, "Okay, Okay. I'm sorry. I thought if I did it this way it wouldn't scare you." Mind you, I was still technically asleep and dreaming so I ran upstairs crying and screaming--in the dream.

The next time Jon came to me in a dream was quite different. He had been perfected by that time. It was after the funeral and once again I was sleeping on the couch. He appeared to me wearing a long whitish garment. His hair had no grey, he wasn't wearing glasses, his freckles were gone and his teeth were unharmed by time. I went to him crying and put my head on his knee. We spoke through thoughts and he said, "You have got to get over this." and I thought back, "I can't. I can't." But eventually I got better. We all did and do.

For a long time I pretended Jon had moved to an island with no phones or means of communication. That helped some. But now I know he never really left us. He's still with us. I meet him constantly in another person's face, or hear him speak through something someone says.Those of us who were closest to Jon still at times say things like, "Remember when Jon . . ." and "I can just hear what Jon would say to that." Sometimes Jon comes alive when I hear a motorcycle go by. He was a Harley guy.

EPILOGUE

Several months ago while trying to finish writing my "memoir," my Aunt Murdayne gave me some family photos I'd not seen in many, many years. I compiled a packet of all the photographs I considered pertinent to my manuscript, but set them aside as I hadn't made my final choices. Very shortly after my Aunt gave me the photos I decided to get them out and peruse them; they were nowhere to be found. Take my word for this--they were nowhere. As I was sitting on my front porch this morning thinking about life and Jon, I thought, "You know, Jon, if you're still around and able to hear me, will you please help me find those damn pictures?!"

He did.