jon

(that's him on the right... i'm in the middle.)

You know that thing, those things, you hold on to. One moment in time… maybe you don’t even remember the exact place or time or the person… but usually you remember the person and one sentence. And maybe not even the exact words, but the essence. And because you have remembered it again and again it has been revised and given another angle of meaning each time it is remembered.

This is what I remember: I was in Seattle. It was January-term, my sophomore of college. I was twenty—such a frustrating age, so close to finally being an adult. I was living with my brother for the month. He had a one bedroom apartment and he was hesitant for me to come to stay with him, but also encouraging. He is twelve years older than me. He left for college when I was six years old. I date my earliest memories by whether he is in them. Little kids see everything one sided. They understand the roles of those that are there to comfort them, but they don’t understand what it means to the comforter to be able to comfort. Children are completely genuine in their roles. They don’t realize they are benefiting anyone by needing, they only know to need. They aren’t pretending. They really can’t reach the door knob. Or tie their shoes. Or defend themselves against big brothers. But bigger brothers can do these things. And in doing so, they can move from needing to be needed. I slept on a futon that I rolled up and stored in the closet during the day. I worked at a community center three days a week—batiking pillows cases with the kids and painting the walls of a reading room blue. I did my own batiking the rest of the week. Jon had set up a “studio” for me on the porch. Half of it was roofed so I could be out even on the warmer rainy days, with the escaping drops hissing in the hot wax. For the Christmas before he had made me a set of frames for stretching the fabric. They could all be screwed together to make one huge frame. Or used individually for smaller pieces. During that month I stretched and waxed and dyed and waxed and dyed and ironed four large squares of fabric. Jon thought it was a good start. I was able to really experiment with the materials, he told me, suggesting that none of these squares were yet art. He is always the most critical of my work. I promised to make him something for his apartment in thanks for the frame, but it didn’t happen that month. We drank a lot. And smoked a little. We sat on his porch and it was the first time I had spent that much time with him since I was six. Since I could remember. We talked about our family and about the roles we each play. He likes to tease me about being the baby. About needing. About getting my way. In agreement, I told him I thought I was probably a brat when I was a kid. I remember having a friend over and thinking she was getting too much attention, so I spun in circles with my play purse loaded with wood blocks. I spun my circles closer and closer to her until the blocks hit her and she cried. And then I was scolded and she was comforted and it all back-fired. That’s all I remember but I’m sure I was a brat. Jon said he remembers that I was always reading. That I brought a bag of books with me everywhere. Even before I could read the words. I would just look at them. And no one could tell me that I wasn’t actually reading. He remembered the day I was born. He said I was smiling. He said that everyone else was smiling. He looked at me and said that our family got better the day I was born.