From last week, actually

Because the 8th would have been his 25th birthday.

Bringer of Light

I wish I could remember his face. In my few hazy memories I can never quite make it out. He is always there, but when I try to see his face it fades into a blur of sunshine and shadow.

His name meant “Light-bringer,” and that is how he appears in my remembrance: a source of light so bright I can’t look directly at it, but which leaves a shadow when it is gone.

Occasionally, I see a flash of a look in a younger brother’s eyes I recognize as his, and hold my breath.

Aaron was born in Baton Rouge, La., but anyone could tell he belonged in the wheat fields of Oklahoma. My parents moved there when Aaron was a year and a half to take care of my grandmother. Aaron and Maestro, the Schitzu cocklebur collector, delighted in the wide open spaces and fresh air after the confinement of the city.

Mama and Daddy called him their “farmer boy”: nothing stood between him and helping out with the men’s work in the garden or field. He fit right in with all the outdoor critters in summer; his sunny grin and eyes sparking blue lit up my world.

In my first baby picture, he is holding me. I am a squalling red ball wrapped in a blanket, but he doesn’t seem to mind, gazing down with wonder and favor on his new charge.

His presence was a constant reassurance I took for eternally granted. I didn’t worry about anything, because I knew Aaron was there. He was my protector: when a mean big boy of four tried to pass me in line for the bumper boats, Aaron stopped him. No one cut in front of his sister.

He frequently carried me away to safety on the back of his bay rocking horse, his velvety green sombrero clashing with red and white striped jammies.

Once I tagged along with him and a friend named Andy to the creek half a mile away, where we threw in rocks and watched them splash and ripple into rings. He was six, and I was three, and our mother was proud that he was old enough to take care of me.

Despite his relative maturity, Aaron was still a child. For my third birthday, Dad set up an early camcorder on a tripod in the kitchen and positioned me in front of it for an “interview.”

I shyly avoided his questions, refusing to talk or sing my “birthday song,” until Aaron came through the door. Without turning his smile from the camera, he scooted me over on my chair and sat down.

“Am I on TV?” he asked through his teeth, careful not to break his smile.

“Yes,” Dad said, and Aaron started chattering like one of our hens. Our father asked him if he wanted everyone who saw him on TV to think he was silly.

He shrugged. “Yeah,” he laughed.

I sat up. “When I’m on TV, I’m gonna be siwwy.”

Aaron put his arm around me, and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Be silly! You’re on the tape!” I immediately began producing zooming noises while Aaron “she-bop-bopped” beside me.

He bought me a gift that year too, and was almost as excited as I was — he tried to help me open it. It was a pink jewelry box with a cat on the top that looked like Mittens.

He showed me how the drawer opened so I could put in my new hairbows. He was very proud of his taste, and kept asking, “Do you like your present, Hannah? Hannah, do you like your present?”

Every night at eight o’clock our mother would read from Egermeier’s Bible Story Book, and tell us a story about when she was little. Then she let us each choose one lullaby, and we would lie in bunk beds in footie pajamas listening to her sing until we fell asleep on pillowslips he had fingerpainted. Music at night still reminds me of the comfort of having him near, and the lack after he was gone.

His favorite hymn was “Trust and Obey.” My mother cried later when we sang it. I whispered, “Aaron?” because I wanted to cry too. She nodded, surprised I understood.
I was only three when he died. His friend Andy prayed for me daily, because I had lost my best friend. God must have answered his prayers, because I don’t remember hurting. I missed him, but I knew Aaron was with Jesus, where he had always wanted to be. What could possibly be more wonderful?