Riding Bruce’s motorcycle
(This excerpt is dedicated with love to the memory of my brother, Bruce 1957-2010)
I had my own motorcycle helmet as a child. It was blue with gold flecks.
I was as happy as a dolphin leaping when my brother Bruce told me to go get my helmet. It meant a motorcycle ride.
I put on the black strap under my chin and climbed on behind my brother.
He rode his motorcycle all through the hills and roads of Southern California. I held on for the ride.
He wore a button-down cotton shirt and I grabbed the fabric at his sides as if they were handles. My canvas tennis shoes barely rested on the back pedals.
The wind blew my hair back. I felt fast and strong.
The sound of his bike purred as he opened the throttle. It was a small bike as motorcycles go but I was five years old and the engine seemed more powerful than anything else I knew.
We wound around curving roads that climbed past gated houses. Evening fell. He took me to the top of a hill.
He stopped the bike and turned off ignition.
“Climb down, Genny,” he said. “Let’s take a break.”
With his motorcycle leaning on its kickstand, we stood and looked at the bright and glorious sight that was Los Angeles in 1974.
The city lights glimmered gold as far as I could see. Ocean air mixed with the eucalyptus trees.
For as much as my mother liked talking, my brother liked silence. I could sit for hours with him watching TV and we wouldn’t say a word. We stood in a comfortable quiet watching the lights of LA.
It was a clear night without smog covering the starry night sky.
I don’t know what he thought about. He didn’t tell me. It was his senior year of high school. He was a nonconformist. He wore a leather top hat and drew cartoons. He had a few friends who could appreciate his trouble-making sense of humor but I imagine he felt the pain of not fitting in.
He would start college soon and never finish. He would start drugs soon and never stop.
But I didn’t know that then. I only thought about going places with my strong brother. I felt like we could go anywhere with the motorcycle as our steed to take us.
The gleaming valley under the stars beckoned us with its brightness.
My brother turned and smiled down at me.
He still had hope in his heart then.
12 thoughts on “Broken hand to pray with (excerpt two)”
Hope is a slippery commodity what he had and perhaps misplaced rushes through your hair but now in the driver’s seat you carry it for yourself some others and maybe in a small way for him
Thanks for these poetic words and your heart and your rare depth of understanding.
I appreciate this loving tribute to our brother who was a strong and beautiful person. I remember him with fondness. I love to tell the happy stories of his life. Thank you for sharing this memory.
Thank you for your love of him and me and us three being siblings together.
I don’t know you, but I know the pain of losing a brother at too young an age. I read your words with tears in my eyes. Thank you for sharing.
I so appreciate your note. It encourages me to keep writing. Blessings and comfort to you.
Watching Bruce interact with you was one reason I fell in love with him. *This* was the man I wanted for his children.
I’m grateful you came into my family! Thank you for your steadiness and your strength and your goodness.
“He would start college soon and never finish. He would start drugs soon and never stop.” I find this phrase haunting me – a two-sentence summary of his tragedy.
I agree with you Lisa. I have heard these two sentences echo in my heart for weeks. These words says so much about a life lived and lost. Like a two sentence biography to explain what happened.
I found my framed copy of this picture in deep storage last week. I polished it up and put it on our picture wall – it’s time.
Looking at it I realized his youngest is now the same age as he was in this picture. Whatever else he did, he helped produce two wonderful new people who show much of his best and none of his worst.There is comfort in that.
I remember my mother when I see birds but remembering my brother is more difficult. I have the photos of the time when we celebrated his life at Gen’s place with silly string. These photos are on my refrigerator. I want to remember the good times when Bruce was happy and loving. There were lots of times like that. I know he loved all of us. I am so grateful for his wonderful children. I agree Lisa, “much of his best and none of his worst.” Sending you lots of love for honoring his memory, Lisa. I hope for a time when we have better treatments for mental illness and other families don’t have to suffer such losses.