He was the baby of our family, and he wanted to be seen and heard. One boy vs. three girls. I remember one time in the mudroom of our grandparents’ home, I was sitting on the couch and he was being playful. He had this small white bear dressed as a clown with spotted dots and kept whacking me with it.
I was a quiet kid. Didn’t like fights or confrontation or anything that could make me cry or spark anger. But on the fifth or sixth whack, I grabbed his forearm and chucked him across the room and into the kitchen.
He still tells that story (better than I do) with amusement, and I think: as little as we were, that was the moment we understood each other.
My cousins (I’ve written about one already, maybe several times—hi, my reader) are such a significant part of my life that when I imagine life without them, I feel my breath hitch.
Two years ago, he came to Florida and we drove to Orlando to check out Galaxy’s Edge, both Star Wars nerds, extra hyped because Andor had just come out. There was something about that day. I felt like a kid in a way I hadn’t in ages. That’s who he is: a living version of nostalgia, laughter, ease, and childlike soulfulness. And if you’re lucky enough to be in his life, he’ll show you that when he wants to.
That’s the thing about children: we sometimes forget how introspective they are. They might not have wisdom earned by years, but they have soul, inquisitiveness, joy. If you can hold onto some of those traits as you age? Holy cow.
He has achieved that. And he makes me hope I have, too.
That day, at Galaxy’s Edge, it wasn’t too crowded. The weather was perfect. We had a beer before Aerosmith’s Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster and it wasn’t even 10:30 a.m. When we got off, I still remember his what the fuck face and that happy realization of: this day has just started.
I had meticulously planned everything, which I never do, but it turns out using the app was genius. At Galaxy’s Edge, we bought Rebel Alliance merch and walked around in it. I couldn’t stop laughing. Because that’s also who he is: a goddamn relentless comedian. So fucking funny, which makes me feel funny. And when you’re laughing that hard, you pause and think: when was the last time I laughed like this?
I think of all he’s done for me as a human, but I flash most to the moment before one of my sister’s beach weddings. I’d just been fantastically dumped in the worst way, and I was a sack of shit. In a terrible state. He went for a walk with me on St. Pete Beach. It was early, which was another thing between us: the early risers of the cousins. I think I was twenty-two, so he would’ve been eighteen.
We sat down. I probably cried. I don’t remember the conversation. But I remember him next to me. I remember his comfort.
The thing I’m evoking here isn’t just how special he is to me, because that’s obvious. If I bring us back closer to the present, I’d choose the moment the two of us were in the Star Wars bar at Galaxy’s Edge. The bartender talks to you like you’re in-universe, like you’re paying in credits. And the two of us, fully ready to play along, were eating it up. I looked at him like, is this for real? and he looked back at me like he was already Han Solo.
Back to the bear story I opened with. I think about that often, because I think how even as kids, we just got each other. And the truth is, out of every sibling I have, I never felt safe to do that to one of them. I felt safe with him.
All these years later, there we were. Two adults with fake credits in a Star Wars bar, fully bought in. Still getting each other.
That’s who you hold onto. The ones who don’t make you feel like you’re acting. Just playing, just being.
If I give that back, even a little? I’m doing just fine.
(Daily Writing 051)
Thoughts?