Nothing but the Good Memories
By Tom Kinsey
I wanted nothing but the good memories. This is what I told myself when my mother called and said that it was time to go through Mark’s things. I went to her house one day after work in late August to reluctantly sift through his collection of items: jackets, shirts, a watch, some books, CDs, DVDs, some odds and ends, a coffee maker, tools, trinkets. I had convinced myself that I would leave with nothing. I wanted nothing. I would leave with nothing but the good memories. Anything I took would be too hard to bear, an emotional weight too heavy to carry. But then I saw the book I had given him for Christmas 2013. It was The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. As I slowly turned the pages, I wondered when he had last held the book. Shortly afterward, my mother showed me a Valentine’s Day card that I had given Mark decades ago.
It was a Garfield Valentine that read, “Just gotta tell you . . . You’re special!” I had written “To: Mark From: Tom” in a large and untidy script. I have never been fond of Valentine’s cards or the day for that matter, but something had prompted me well over 30 years ago to give Mark this card. More astonishingly, something prompted my brother to keep it. I wish I could ask him why. What was it about this card that made him want to hold on to it? Maybe I was in a more tender mood at that point and that is something Mark wanted to remember. I am going to tell myself that yes, this is the reason why, because I know I could be hard sometimes. Mark was remembering the best of me.
As I remember the best of him. I know why I gave him a copy of The Things They Carried. I taught the book at Finger Lakes Community College when I was an adjunct instructor, and I thought he would appreciate reading about the strength and perseverance of the soldiers trudging their way through Vietnam. After all, he persevered with earning his GED at age 26. I was so proud of him when he attained his degree. I tried to persuade him to come to community college to further his education, but his smile told me everything I needed to know about that idea. Nevertheless, I told him to hold his head high and be proud of his accomplishment. His was a difficult road. He had traveled long and hard to reach that goal, and I was proud.
No matter what happened, I will remember the best of my brother. Mark had some funny sayings and a broad smile. He enjoyed fishing and hunting turkeys. He loved his nieces and nephews. He was a good man. A hard worker. Gifted with natural ability to combine the right ingredients in the right amounts with amazing speed and agility, he was a talented cook and baker. When Charlie called me that night, June 1, 2019, I was asleep on the couch. I had spent the day with my family at Genesee Country Village and Museum. “Tom,” Charlie began, “there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. Mark is dead.”
Nothing has ever knocked me down so hard.
Nathaniel, my son, saw and heard everything, the ungodly sounds that I must have been making. I quickly stood and tried to find resolve. What was I going to do? I had to do something. Anything. I told my brother that I would be in Holley as soon as possible.
Down the road from my parents’ house, I could see the pulsing red and blue lights, and when I arrived, I parked my car behind two police cruisers. Several relatives were in the front lawn with officers and paramedics. I went inside the house and then spoke to an officer at the kitchen table and offered clues to help the police unlock Mark’s phone. The sergeant was able to unlock the phone before Mark’s body was taken out on the gurney. The sight of the white sheet covering Mark’s body was enough to solidify this thought: yes, this is real; yes, Mark is dead.
That night, I was unable to sleep, so around three in the morning I sat and wrote the following poem. I was wrecked with sorrow, for I kept thinking about the white sheet covering Mark’s body and about the little white coffin that cradles Abel’s body. His son, just two weeks old, died four years earlier.
For Mark and Abel
June 1, 2019
Let us each be laughter,
the joy of the sun,
bright smiled, bright laughing,
bright the morning come.
For you there is no sorrow, but only joy,
for you are home
with your little boy.
Let us each be siblings,
the joy of our bond,
bright smiled, bright laughing,
bright the noontide sun.
For now is our sorrow, tomorrow our joy,
when we see you again
with your little boy.
Let us each be friends,
the joy of times to come,
bright smiled, bright laughing,
bright still the setting sun.
For we forget sorrow, remember only joy,
when we are all home with you
and your little boy.
No matter what happened, Mark’s spirit and the joy of his life trump the memory of that night. He has laid down his burdens, as the saying goes. I pick up The Things They Carried sometimes, and I take out the Valentine’s Day card that I keep in between the pages next to the picture of him when he was eight or nine. Tim O’Brien explains that the weight of memory that the soldiers carry far outweigh anything else that they carried through the jungle. The weight of June 1, 2019 will always be there until I meet Mark again. Even so, Mark helps me remember nothing but the good memories. He helps me because he kept the things that mattered. Little things. A little Valentine’s Day card that most people would just toss away, that I probably would just toss away, when it was socially acceptable to do so.
Because Mark, “Just gotta tell you . . . You’re special!”
You are with me always. You remembered the best of me, and I remember the best of you.
