My brother

Last week was the first time my brother Andy (yes just like my husband), and I talked about Mickey. (Though his given name was Ralph Michael Marks, everyone called him Mickey. It’s weird to refer to my father by a nickname, and not call him “Dad” or “Daddy.”  But we never had a chance to form any kind of bond or deep relationship with him. And because there was never that familiarity, he’s always been this omni-present stranger in our lives.)

Andy’s never read these letters. He felt that they were too personal, too intimate to read. I would repeatedly ask him over the years if he ever wanted to read them.  A quiet and firm “no, thank you” was always his answer.

It sounds really bizarre that we’ve never talked about this tragedy. When we were younger, we were close, and we’d make up silly games to play. But never once did we talk about Mickey together.  And we knew not to ask about the fine details because we didn’t want to upset our mom. It was as if any question could re-open a wound that never quite healed.

As we talk, neither of us is wistful nor sad. Just matter-of-fact, like we were discussing the weather. We considered what kind of people we would have turned out to be, had circumstances been different. Andy thinks he’d be less self-critical, maybe more confident. Sometimes I think the same about myself. But we’ll never know.

How can you mend a broken heart?

Barbra Streisand, who also lost her father when she was an infant, has spoken about how this experience has affected her life, article here: http://bit.ly/3p4zwgo. (Trivia note: This is not the only thing we have in common with her. She attended Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn, the school that our stepfather taught at for years. Second Streisand trivia note: Some of my favorite memories are driving to my cousins’ house in Hackettstown, NJ while my mom belted out the entire Guilty Duets album with Barry Gibb.)

In an interview she mentions how during tough times in her life, she looked to her father for answers and guidance.  It made me think – Did I ever do that? It was only during seminal moments in my life. When I graduated college. When I got married.  It was a quick status check-in, usually framed around “Hey, you seeing this?” As if I just wanted him to know what I was up to, checking the box on accomplishing big events.

Now, don’t judge me here, but when Andy and I talked, it was also the first time I learned the meaning of Pink Floyd’s The Wall album. Andy’s a huge musicophile, so he knows a lot about certain bands and albums. He taught me that when he was in college, this album touched Andy the most. It was all about how Roger Waters dealt with being a rock star, and he built a wall between him and the world. He started with the death of his father in the war, who died before he was born. His dad’s death was “the first brick” in the wall.

Losing my father left an exposure, something incomplete. But rather than close myself off, I think I did the opposite – welcome everything and anything in, to help fill the void.