deep in the ocean, there lies a wave for you

If some of your colleagues are men, and you work in a casual environment, you’re familiar with the “Oh, it’s going to be above 60 today? I will wear shorts” phenomenon. It never fails. It was like that in high school, too, and it got to the point where the principal needed to regulate by declaring when it was officially permitted. If there wasn’t a rule, the boys would be wearing shorts as soon as the snow started to melt.

Yesterday it was 80 degrees out, but I still wrapped myself in a cardigan before I left the house and kept it on all day. It’s not like, ohh, I wear long sleeves even in the summer because when my boyfriend was dying of cancer in the hospital I was always wearing sweatshirts because it was so cold in there and now it’s like, “my thing,” wahhhh. I mean, it is true; I did wear warm clothes all the time when Clark was sick. Mostly I wore his clothes, these black thermal undershirts. But no, I’m not STILL wearing sweaters as some sort of homage to this really tough time. However, they do give me a feeling of protection, like a blanket shield. Like I’ve got my guard up, which I do. And I’m not really hot when I choose not to wear shorts and T-shirts. But I do feel safe.

It’s like how I prefer to drink red wine all the time, even in August. At the first glint of summer sunshine, Cella’s uncorking a bottle of pinot grigio. But last night at the bar, even though my face still hadn’t de-reddened from the gym and my body was swathed in a layer of gray cotton, I had two glasses of a Syrah that I’ve had dreams about drinking. The wine brought the same feeling that my sweater gives my body to the pit of my belly.

My younger brother Nicholas has matured in the past year. I always used to chalk his mushiness, his sensitivity, up to age and the fact that he was, for most of his young life, in the care of three ladies. He was lovesick over his first two girlfriends and spent the better part of the weekends during his freshman year of college driving between home and campus. He’d get there on Friday in time to see the high school football game because his certain someone was a cheerleader.

Now it’s more accurate to say that he’s thoughtful and kind because he’s confident. He recently transferred to a new school and, after a semester living at home, moved out of my parents’ house and into an apartment near Kutztown, which he shares with a group of upperclassmen. A few weeks ago my stepdad brought over some food my mom had cooked for the boys. Nick came down to greet him, and Bill moved to leave, but Nick urged him to stay and eat with him and his friends. He’s not embarrassed to show affection for his family, and I adore that about him. It shows how sure of himself he is, how comfortable he is in his own skin.

When the end of his first-ever relationship was nigh, Nick was a wreck. He moped around and stopped eating. The night before Clark’s first surgery, we were in our hotel room in White Marsh when my brother called. I think, even though we were so scared for what was to happen the next day, Clark was relieved to talk my brother down. It was a distraction that made him feel helpful.

Nick got a version of Clark’s (and my) tattoo last week, and I am so touched. My biggest fear is the potential for everyone to forget what I still can’t stop thinking about, and my brother’s done something out of his love for me and Clark to permanently lessen it. It makes me feel like I did some things so very right.