Hurricane John

Some things you don’t get over. Death of an Irish twin is one. Hours of parallel play. Racing snails. Matching cabooses. Peanut butter on toast. Picking huckleberries. Tying towels around our necks after a bath and flying around singing the Batman theme. The flat track for our tiny cars, with the completely satisfying 3-D gas station — the nozzle attached to the rope hose fits into the hole on the side of the cars perfectly.

Sitting in the front passenger seat of the Valiant, Dad tailing the ambulance, fear crackling like lightning. Being held up to the hospital window so I can see my brother. Why is he in a crib? He’s a big boy! My grandmother arrives and takes me to the toy store. Adjustable skates? And that may be where Johnny’s Puppy comes from. The nurses put bandaids on it every time they have to draw blood, or poke him for some other reason. Decades later, a young niece will remove the bandaids and I have to leave the room.

It’s hurricane season in México, and this week there’s one named John. I laughed when I saw it on the NOAA site. Aloha! His death anniversary is September 30, and every year I struggle with summer and sorrow. Most of me believes that he isn’t dead, that his spirit is with me. But, oh! How I loved his sturdy little body, his smiling blue eyes. He ran away a lot, said my mother, but I don’t remember that. I remember him viscerally, our bodies wriggling together in happiness. Kinship.

I still have his Puppy, now swaddled in a silk scarf my mother bought me in France, a plumeria stitched in place of a worn spot. Every so often I buy a Batman shirt, and once choreographed a duet to the TV show theme song. And even now, I can hear his voice in my head, saying my name with surprise and delight. A Hurricane of Love.