For Brandon

It began as any typical work day (yes, I do have an actual day job).  Outfitted in my favorite black, 60's style cigarette pants, white parachute top and kiwi green snakeskin pumps, I was feeling pretty hot.  I had walked down the street to grab a quick lunch, and actually strolled back to the office swinging the bag and doing my best imitation of a cat-walking Naomi Campbell.  I fancied myself a sort of caramel, twenty first century version of "That Girl", only I had no hat to toss up into the sky. 

Then I walked up on my mother frantically pressing the elevator button in the lobby of my building.  My mother, who was supposed to be three hours south at her own place of employment.

In my gut, I knew whatever reason had brought her three hours north on a work day without calling was going to be bad.  With my insides churning, I willed my long legs to stop. But my mouth (which sometimes opens before my brain closes it) called out in a voice that sounded like a stranger's, so weak that I was sure she could not hear me: "Mama? What are you doing here?"

When her leaden eyes met mine, all motion and sound in the bustling world around me grated to halt. Suddenly, I had no idea where I was; I could not remember how to breathe.  As she moved toward me, I shut my eyes and turned to walk away, to run away, to hide from her eyes and whatever it was she had come three hours on a work day, without calling, to tell me.

It wasn't good news.

It's been over seven months since my cousin Brandon, the sweetheart of our family, passed away.  Not a day goes by that I don't think about him, and wish just one more time that I could hear his laughter, see his dimples, hug him.  

He had come to visit about two weeks before his passing. During this visit, he asked me point blank why I wasn't doing the things I'd dreamt of doing since we were just Nully with the outie belly button and Doogie the thumb sucker.  And I, whose smart mouth always has a tart answer for anything, was struck dumb. 

"I don't know" wasn't good enough for him.  Neither were "I tried, but" or "I wasn't good enough to". 

I can still hear him saying "Come on, Lex.  What you waiting for?" 

What was I waiting for?

The question echoed in my head, rang in my thoughts, haunted my dreams for the better part of seven months.  And I realized I had been living life like a perpetual game of Duck, Duck, Goose, waiting to be tapped.  And I watched complacently as life went around me in circles, while I sat.  And sat.  And sat some more.

Suddenly, I could not wait anymore to live my life anymore. I felt the push to go forward, to forge ahead despite fears of rejection, inadequacy, failure. I can't loiter in hopes that if I'm a good, patient little girl who waits her turn and minds her Ps and Qs, life will tap me on the head and send me to the major leagues.  Life is too heartbreakingly short. I don't have that kind of time.  Do you?

I wish Brandon were here, to see that his cousin isn't a lady-in-waiting anymore, an innocent bystander in her own life.  I wish he knew his life gave me the courage to live my own. I wish he knew that right now-beyond having been my partner in crime during all those vacations spent at *Camp Crawford-he's my hero.

If he could read this column, I think he'd say "That's what's up."

*Camp Crawford is our grandparents’ home in south Alabama