Several years ago my brother asked for a dictionary. He was in the early middle period of his long medical decline. If we had realized then how bad things for going to get for him, we both would have gone crazy.
His friendship roster had been steadily declining, both with his decreased mobility and his declining health. At this point however, he could still reach his desk, which used to be our father’s desk, located in father’s bedroom, but had been carried down to the dining room for my brother to use. It was getting increasingly difficult for my brother to get upstairs. In his last several years, he didn’t lay eyes on his own bedroom. It became just a storage room for his stuff which I would fetch.
There were probably three dictionaries in the house. I picked the one that was easiest to handle and left it on his desk. He had a couple of friends left at this point, together with many people in the neighborhood that he met when he ventured out with his walker. He even raked leaves with his walker. He loved outdoor work and did it as long as he possibly could.
The dictionary was requested for writing a letter to a friend who lived out on Long Island. I don’t know if he ever wrote that letter and I don’t remember if at that time he was still able to reach the desk. It’s possible that he wrote the letter without consulting the dictionary. I would have been the one who mailed it for him. I don’t remember that specific mailing.
Here’s the point of this short essay: That dictionary is still on my brother’s desk, waiting for his use, several years after he requested I put it there. My brother passed away this April. I cannot remove that dictionary. I cannot open his bureau drawers and sift through his stuff. Every time I pass through the dining room I’m aware of two lost intentions. My brother’s intention to write a letter, and my intention to help him.
I reach out my hands to help my brother. I’m well practiced in helping him. But when I reach out…there’s nothing there.
