I'm listening to Das Loblied, an Old Order Amish hymn, trying to drown out my awareness that it is indeed, January 12th, with a song that reminds me of January 12th. I shouldn't, but I am. It's like putting iodine on a wound. It pains me to be reminded, to remember, but I can't completely forget - though I try. Although... I am not trying too hard today. I don't think it right to purposely tune out the memories on the anniversary of such a monumental change in my life.
3 years ago today, I saw Henry bend his face down to my head and brush my bedhead out of my face. He straightened, smiled and took his black peacoat from my mother, who'd been holding it out to him. Adjusting and buttoning the coat down the front, he inhaled as if to make time to double check if he had everything, which he did, and then he shoved his hands in his pockets. He waited for a second by the open front door, saying goodbye to my mother, letting her return the word, before he skipped down off the threshold and walked out to his car. But just before that, he had made quiet mention of an invitation for me to visit him in the summer; all his talk of Mennonite living had intrigued me and he was wanting to show me his gardens and such.
The next week, he was seeing a patient across the room from me. It was strange not being under his care while he was in the room, and he felt the strageness, too, I assumed. But he would be quitting his job here, and wanted to resume closer to home or better yet, start his own clinic. He never spoke to me, only periodically looked over to me as he worked with the new patient. All I could think about was his "confession" the week prior, as he helped me up my front steps. "It won't be the same without you," he had said, disappointment in his tone. Little did I know, those words were foreshadowing the emptiness and anger I would feel starting a few weeks later.
Henry was 21 when we met, and I, 6. I was a tiny thing of chestnut hair, brown eyes, twig-limbs and a motor of a mouth. The only thing that made my constant talking tolerable I think, had been my chipmunk voice and cherubic face. He was a young man, getting his doctorate in medicine. He liked to debate more than converse, but I was too young then to debate, so mostly, he just listened. He listened and got good at it, too, burrying all those political, religious, philosophical debates until I was old enough to understand a little of what he was saying.
For the next eight years, as he perfected in his career and taught students, we learned a lot about each other. I don't know why we bonded so easily and so fast, but we did. I learned he lived the Mennonite lifestyle - wasn't a member, just lived the simplicity; I learned he was really good at talking with his eyes, which I too, picked up right quick; I learned he did not like a lot of technology, living with no TV, cell phone or computer, save the one he had for work; I learned he detested getting his hair wet, though I was one of the first, he said, to really get it drenched.
With me, it was pretty clear to him that I was stubborn. As fast as he learned I loved to talk, he figured out that calling me "cute" made me angry, and that I was extremely ticklish, which he sometimes used as a "punishment" for my stubborness. As I got into my teens, he found that I loved taking selfies and eating Wendy's, two things which he did not encourage nor appreciate. When I was around 14, my parents let him join us at Wendy's Fast Food once a month. But he exhausted my parents with his debates, so a year later, they let us go, just the two of us. He never debated with me, which I never understood why not. Instead, we would spend hours in philosophical discussion, talk about religion, living simply, eating organic. We also talked about medicine a lot, especially when he heard of my deep passion for OB/GYN.
He taught me about modesty and vanity
and would take rhe battery out of my phone until after dinner. He used to say that too much of our minds are being wasted by television and social media, and video games. He was always reminding me not to be vain, telling me every now and then about covering my hair, that perhaps I should do it... willingly, not religously.
One time, he bought me a frosty, which he never did. He held it behind his back, a glint in his eye, and then he plunged a spoon into the icecream, and to my surprise, took a huge bite of it. He finished, gave me the rest. I called it hipocracy, but he waved the word away.
He was the first to try and teach me to dance, the first to really, truly listen to me and sometimes he ignored me, but not too often. He used to joke and say that the age gap shrunk every time I opened my mouth, calling me a mini Buddha - wise beyond my years. I never thought about the fact that he had 15 years on me. It never crossed my mind until the first day he wasn't at the clinic anymore. It never crossed my mind until he walked out into the chill, wrapped in his peacoat, getting in to the car he once said he really wanted to lose for a hybrid... In fact, he even mentioned he wouldn't mind a horse and buggy at one point.
Very few people knew that Henry and I were so close. For unknown reasons that still stand, Henry just vanished from my life on January 12th, 2011, after he finished working that day in the corner with a new patient. I can still see him looking at me from across the room. I know he said something with his eyes, but I don't remember what it was.
A few months prior to that day, he was particularily quiet and pensive. When I asked him what was up, he simply, classically said, "I will tell you when you need to know, not when you want to."
And he did tell me. He told me on the steps, the week before he left: "It won't be the same without you."
And it never has. I haven't seen or spoken to him since then. 3 years ago, today... He spoke those words.
Forever a brother, forever a teacher, forever a friend to me.
I miss you, Henry.