Holiday Ghosts

Holiday Ghosts

Growing up, I always wished I had an older brother—someone to guide and teach me. I was the oldest of my biological siblings, and that role fell to me. When I was around ten, my mom started dating a man who would later become my stepfather. He had three kids of his own; although two were already grown, he had a son named Michael, who was two years older than me. Just like that, I had an older brother.

When our parents were married, my two siblings and I, plus Michael, moved into a new house. This was the first house we’d lived in with modern amenities like central heating and air, an upstairs, and even a shower that wasn’t a janky attachment to an ancient clawfoot tub like our previous house. We felt fancy.

I initially shared a room with my younger brother, Shawn, and after a year, my mom and stepdad decided they could convert a small room next to our attic into my room. I didn’t care how tiny the room was; it was mine! The only caveat was that my room was essentially a thruway between an upstairs den and Michael’s room.

Michael could be a terrorist at times, as most older brothers can be. He was used to having his own things and space, and not sharing with three younger kids. If I played my guitar or music too loud, he’d storm into my room and rip cables out of the amp or unplug the stereo with threats of violence. Message received. We became close through the years. Mostly because I wouldn’t disclose his extracurricular activities to our parents, and I’d play dumb about his whereabouts. I’m many things, but a snitch ain’t one of them, and he appreciated that.

This didn’t mean that I wasn’t tormented when we were both in the same high school. Michael was two grades above me and very popular. I have one core memory of jumping rope in gym class and being grabbed by him and one of his friends while having my shorts shanked to my ankles and someone wrapping me up in a jump rope. As I struggled to detangle myself and pull my shorts back up, I saw them just laughing hysterically as they made their escape. Looking back, that memory always makes me laugh, but at the time, I was mortified.

Michael has been gone now for over twelve years. I miss the hell out of him. I choke back tears when I see his children as they grow and reflect his image more and more each time I see them. He’d be so proud to see how amazing they are. I know I am. Not only do I mourn his passing, but more so the fact that his kids didn’t get to know him the way I did. They were both very young when he passed.

One of my biggest regrets in life is letting some petty argument come between us. There was a wedge between us that I never got to repair. We hadn’t talked for a year or more when I got the call of his untimely death. I remember swallowing it down because, at the time, I was leaving for a work trip to Cincinnati and got the call on my way out the door early that morning. Three days later, at home in my tiny apartment, I broke. Once I started crying, I couldn’t stop. Every time I think of the time we lost because of our stubborn pride, I’m full of regret.

He lives on in his children. Their faces haunt me in the best of ways. He may not have been a blood relative, but Michael was my brother. The good and the bad all made him who he was—who we were. The holidays and family gatherings always bring things like this to my mind. Although the focus shouldn’t always be on the empty chairs, it’s good to remember who’s no longer here and be thankful for those who are. Don’t leave things left unsaid.

Too many times, we dance around the hard conversations—both good and bad—and you just never know if you’ll get another chance to say your peace. Now, I rarely ever miss an opportunity to let people know how I feel about them. So, be thankful for the people in your life and let them know what they mean to you. Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas.

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Front Row: L to R Me, Michael, Back Row Staci, Shawn - We flew to Lake Tahoe in the late 1990s when I was in middle school or early high school.

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