The Creature

On corned beef, cankles, and the boy who carries what he can't recall.

Written March 18, 2025

The creature I love is fourteen now, the youngest of four brothers. He doesn’t remember the feasts and the music and the laughter so well. He was just three when his big brother Oliver was diagnosed. He doesn’t remember the laughter, though he was the source of much of it.

His three big brothers doted on him. They zoomed him around in laundry baskets and tossed him into the air. They laughed uproariously at his dancing to their favorite songs. There were wry bits about explorers who traveled into the folds of his chubby cherub thighs, wrists, and ankles. His big brothers called his ankle creases his cankles, his wrist creases his wristles, and spent more than a few hours musing about the unfortunate explorers who had gotten lost in the folds.

This creature, now five foot seven, and I sat down at 7:45 because I struggled to get dinner out. Alone in the quiet, just the two of us, we talked about grampy’s corned beef and how it’s always tender, and exactly what we remembered from the previous year. We talked about the store-bought Irish soda bread and how it was good for store-bought but naturally not nearly as good as his great-grandmother’s. Mostly, we talked about how overwhelmed he feels by the new music he needs to learn right now. If he doesn’t have three of his new songs down by Friday’s rehearsal, it won’t be good. I asked him about the songs, and we built a strategy together.

He seemed lighter, but still heavy. And today, again, still heavy.

Somewhere in there is that boy who could laugh at the drop of a hat.