This morning, I heard Christmas music wafting cheerily through the house. For a moment, I hoped so hard, hoped against hope, that Josiah was the one playing it.
When we were growing up, he used to start playing Christmas music in August.
Whenever someone teased him about it, he would start giggling uncontrollably and hide the remote so no one could change it. He loved Christmas music.
Now, how long as it been since I’ve heard him listen to anything that didn’t evoke pain and angst? How long since I’ve heard him laugh like that? How long since our long, pointless conversations meandered on forever, laced with bad inside jokes and esoteric references?
We had something really cool, my brother and I.
“Really cool” is such a tame phrase, but I almost have to use the tame phrase because to try to capture what we lost in words that come closer but still fall short seems to make a mockery of reality.
I hate this part of reality.
I almost stayed on the couch and refused to find the source of the music. Why shatter a comforting illusion?
But I got up, walked into the living room, saw the music-producer.
My dad’s phone.
So I’ll just keep on hoping and waiting for the Christmas when I can tell Josiah all the things I’ve wanted to tell him for over four years now.
Because love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.