My Job

When I was about 12, my older brother started running away from home. My mother and I would drive around for hours trying to find him. When we did, I would hang out of the passenger window and beseech him to get into the car, crying and begging until he would relent and get in.

When I was in my late teens, I would get a call from my mother, usually late at night, saying that my brother wouldn’t answer his phone and she was worried. I would drive to his apartment building to check and make sure he was OK.

On one such occasion, I went to his apartment on the eleventh floor and knocked on his door. I heard noise in the apartment, called out to him and knocked again. After several minutes of his not answering, I walked down the hallway and there was a window which opened above a courtyard. I opened the window, hoisted myself up and by leaning out as far as I could over the open space and holding on with one hand, I could see into his apartment.

My brother was sitting on a recliner watching Johnny Carson while enjoying a late night snack.

Sixty more years of watching have gone by. My brother passed away on Friday morning. My job is over with the passage of time.