One Year Later

It’s been a year, Big Guy. 365 days since I last heard your voice, your laugh, or your scream when Hank nips at your feet. Normally, when I look back at events in my life, they seem so far away, even if they were only a few months prior. Not this event. I look back a year, and every moment of that day is as crystal clear as when it happened. Every moment since is firmly etched into my mind. How does time heal all wounds when time seems to stop?

It’s amazing how fast your house can go to shit when you have zero desire to do anything. The drain on the right side of the kitchen sink broke about a week after you left. I bought all the stuff I need to fix it from Home Depot a few days after that, and it’s been sitting on the counter next to the sink since then. Tons of stuff from Amazon are piled up by the side door because I have no urge to put any of it away. Need toilet paper? Just come get it out of one of these boxes. When the box is empty, throw it out. Maybe. Sometimes I’ll let that empty box sit there and I’ll fill it with other empty boxes because taking them outside right then and there is too much. The kitchen island is full of empty frozen food boxes because your brother still doesn’t know where the garbage can is, but I can’t get mad at him anymore; he’s all I have left.

Remember all the things I was looking forward to doing once I got my hip replaced? For the most part, I’ve done none of them. All my models sit in the same place they were. I’ve had zero desire to paint and assemble them. I’ve sat behind my drum kit from time to time, but just went through the motions of making noise. I haven’t even set up the new toms, cymbals, or the rack. All the new stuff I bought for lawn care is still sitting brand new in their respective boxes in the garage. I just started paying the same lawn care company to cut our grass. I wake up, work if it’s a work day, or go sit at my computer if it isn’t and kill time until it’s time to go lie down. That’s about 7 p.m. these days because I just want to check out. I’m lost without you, Big Guy.

I try to remember the good times, and that should be easy because there were so many. From the first time I saw you in the delivery room, until the last words I ever said to you and every time in between, our 25 years together were filled with good times. I can still see you sitting on the sofa at our house in Lacombe, a big bowl of chocolate pudding in your lap, yelling at the cat, “No kitten, dat’s Connor’s puddin.” When you would go out on the porch when we first moved to Buffalo, you would wave and say hello to anyone walking by on the sidewalk, and if they didn’t acknowledge you, you would just yell “hello” louder. Our neighbors called you the Colvin Greeter. There were the neighbors when we moved to Tonawanda who would actually come outside when you were walking to the house from the bus stop after school because they wanted to hear you sing. I felt so much pride when a neighbor would tell me how much they enjoyed your singing and that your happiness was infectious. I still laugh about the time I was talking to your mom about adding to your chores around the house, and when your mom asked you what you thought about that, you replied with, “All I heard was ‘child labor’.”

If there is a good thing about time, it’s that I rarely remember the bad times anymore. You and I had some knock-down, drag-out fights over the years. Your mom says it’s because we were so much alike. I look back on it all now and realize we never argued about something you did or didn’t do; it was always about the different ways we looked at a specific topic. I never got mad at you about things like your schoolwork or how you treated other people because you were perfect there. We would argue about stupid shit, like how you would claim you were going to talk to a teacher that you didn’t like. I’d say something to you about respect, and it was on. We would scream at each other for an hour. You know what? I’d give anything to have an argument with you now.

I bought a shirt a few weeks ago that says, “Gen X. Lots of memories, zero evidence,” and it reminded me of the talks we would have about what it was like when I was younger. You were always fascinated by “life in the ’80s.” I remember telling you how we did as many, if not more, stupid things than your generation does, but the big difference was that there was no such thing as a camera phone back then. None of the stupid shit we did was going to end up on the Internet (which didn’t exist, for the most part, back then either) where it could haunt us for the rest of our lives. Well, I love the fact that video of you exists on the Internet. Outside of the goofy videos you would make with your friends, I have videos like this that I can watch forever.

It was one thing to see you sing in front of a crowd, but when your band teacher untangled your mic, I was blown away by how much you got into the performance and how happy you were. It was one of the proudest moments of my life, Big Guy, and I thank all the smart people who made it possible for me to not only record it, but to have the ability to watch it anywhere I want.

I know, at least I hope that in time, things will improve and I’ll find my path again, but it’s not going to be easy.  It’s something I have to do on my own.  People have been telling me to go see someone, like a grief counselor or something, but you know me; that’s not my style.  The funny thing is, I find myself missing my father these days.  Not because he was a good father or because I really cared about him, you know that.  I think I need to hear what I know he would have said to me; the same thing he would say anytime I was down and out.  He’d tell me to stand up and be a man, that my job was to be the rock that other’s needed.  I know you didn’t agree with that philosophy, but it was the way I was raised and oddly enough, it has gotten me through some tough times.  I need to get through these, if not for myself, but for your mother and brothers.

I’m going to close this year out now because I’ve gone through a box of tissues already. I love you, Big Guy, and I miss you every day.