| When
confronted with the most
difficult things to understand my mind speaks to me in metaphors. Many
have entered since I learned of Kip’s passing. It seems as
though
just,
“poof!” he was gone and we were left packing the
ornaments
away and
taking the tree out. What I discover, however, is that the gifts are
still with me and that is what I choose to see. Although I most
desperately miss him, his gifts to me will last my lifetime. I am
grateful. When I am most anguished, I try to focus on the gifts and I even think I feel him turn my mind in that direction as if to say, “See? See Klis? I know it is hard, I didn’t want it to be so hard for you all but hang on, I have these gifts.” And he trots them out to me just as he did in life. I cry as I handle them and feel guilty that I am wishful for more. He wants me to know he is very much at peace. The heavy layers for him have fallen away and there is lightness present. When I sit real still I swear I can feel his soul, tender, comforting and deeply gentle. This must be his presence, I think, for when I peel away his layers, that has always been the connection I have felt with him my whole life. He was the most wonderful brother. I am a better person because of who he is and who he was for me. I know this is true for all of us. Kip was not one to begrudge others for what they had. He always made it clear throughout my life that he was cheering for me, he believed in me and wanted only the best. More than once he communicated as desire for me to learn from his mistakes. I ached for so much more for him, for the childhood dreams of our futures to be a reality for him as well. He doesn’t want my thoughts to turn that way now, however. “That part is done,” he says, “Hang on to the other things.” And this is true. I am going to hang on to the memories of a person who was not a fierce competitor but a doggedly loyal brother, son, father, uncle, and cousin, nephew, grandson, friend to those he loved. Kip’s heart was most true. He was generous and always ready to be loved and loved he is by many. I often saw an understated patience in him that I doubt even he was aware of. It was a soulful sort of patience and it allowed him to demonstrate a will to survive and hope for better things. It is this soul I speak of that tells me to back away from where my thoughts are headed and again, focus on the gifts. I believe in magic because of my brother. He introduced me to the most important things throughout our childhood reverie. He was a keen observer whose creative genius and scientific curiosity knew no limits. This all made for terrific company. He could build anything, tell a great story, fulfill his sibling duty to tease mercilessly, and share wonder in the small things. He was, in short, my wonderful introduction to life. For that I am so grateful. I could not have asked for more. I could not have asked for better. His mind absolutely engaged me, as he was smart as a whip. He had a quick wit and a truly wicked inclination toward irreverence that could ease or increase tension depending upon his timing. Quite honestly, I will miss that. One could always count on him to provide some comic relief, be a bit of a wild card. And frankly, I think he relished this role. And there it is in response, the sly grin, and sideways glance, “Oh yes,” He says of this gift, “ one of my favorites.” He nods at me in approval. “Oh! And,” he asserts (and at this point I realize he will not leave me be), “Don’t forget my best gift of all, my baby, my McKenna. Tell them, won’t you? Tell them. Tell them to keep me alive for her. Tell her who she is to me. Tell her my stories.” “Alright, Papa Bear,” I answer. “I will.” He wants me to know that the grief is ours, not his, now, that he understands that we grieve whole-heartedly what we loved most deeply—a fact he cannot change. “Remind them of that, okay?” And, again, I promise him I will. I will do my best. |