Think & Thinkibility: When Your Guy Moves On...

Home alone, I packed a little box. I doubt he’ll ever know how emotionally that toilet paper ended up in there. The soap was nestled so carefully in the corner with the cups. A roll of paper towels and some rags and bath towels made their way in, too. It’s the tears he will never see in that box.

I’m a sucker for the “way it used to be” with my siblings. I can’t help it. Countless hours we imagined together, built, and dreamed. Legos, teddy bears, sand castles, dinosaurs, and “we” became something of loftier worth in our eyes in our Land of Pretend. Somewhere we still possess the maps we drew of the islands, the pages describing the money system, and our documents drawing up the code of conduct, that our villains assiduously and professionally violated for our incessant amusement. We knew our characters flawlessly, and played them each to a “T.”

All of us remember the day when Mom said we needed less “stuffed animals” and asked us all to choose a couple to keep. The agony. We stared at each other in disbelief and sorted our cherished friends into piles of “Loves” and “Loved More.” It was a hard day. Somehow we managed. Although it did mean we had to determine how so many of the integral members of our communities so suddenly disappeared. There was a missionary team that was slaughtered on the evil beaches of Dollyville and a tragic school shooting redolent of Columbine. One catastrophic event after another swept Lisaville and the whole Land of Pretend. After the bloodbath, our game lost its luster. How could we play happily with broken families recovering from the slaughter and devastation of recent losses? One day I found them in a black bag, suffocating in the hall closet waiting to go to Goodwill. It broke my seven-year- old heart.

There was the year of the sand castles in my early teens. We studied castles, medieval times, and watched films. Led by again by Nathanael, together we compiled thoughts and laid plans for the world’s perfect sand castle. Whenever we had a chance we ran to the corner of the property with the rich, wet sand, and another epic castle would rise under our eager fingers. At the sand castle competition at the family reunion, with a glance at each other, we knew what our palatial enterprise would entail. We won that day, as one, with sandy hands and muddy hair.

Perhaps I’m reminded now of working together, hour after hour: weeding the garden, or work on the lawn, those group spanking sessions with the Fuhrer that left us feeling so blue, or digging those ditches, rescuing baby goats and chicks on the farm, putting out fires, reclaiming rat carcasses from the Angry Dog, cleaning house, running the feed store, then at work for my dad in his office as a team. Maybe I can’t let go of those times we used to hide under the bunk beds from adult conversations, the times we broke things over each other’s heads in rage, the races to open our stockings on Christmas morning, or when we sobbed on Mom and Dad’s bed until we could hardly breathe when our little brother died. We’ve always done it all together, and it seems so strange to be apart. I should get used to it, I know. I’m the youngest of Crew A, and 22, after all.

But, when my brother Ben packed his car Tuesday night to move to prepare his apartment for his soon-to-be bride, I felt as empty as his room. A stray tear ran over from the pools I was trying to hold back behind my smile. I made smirking comments about his “compact car,” and rushed to get him his electric razor he’d almost forgotten, but I’d rather have hidden it somewhere. He was grateful for the little box I had packed earlier: with those necessities brothers sometime forget. He called out, “I didn’t even think of toilet paper!” as he shoved it in next to the CPU and a twist of cords. His Jessica smiled cheerily from the passenger seat as he slipped into the driver’s. Abruptly, he looked back at me and quietly assured, “Jo, I’ll be back.” Mom took a photo, her mommy tears hidden behind a lens.

I turned, wandered back into my bedroom and slowly pulled my comforter off my bed and started heading to Ben’s room to go to bed. I thought sleeping in there would ease some of the pain I was feeling from knowing that beautiful chapter of life was fully over. “It reeks in there, Honey. And the bed squeaks like ___.” came from my kid sister perched on our loveseat, flat-ironing her hair. Smiling despite myself, I turned around and came back and sat beside little her: Crew B. “You’re right.” I grinned at her. “We’ll be fine: right here.”