Years ago at 192 pounds, I would corner my brother Michael and ask, “Do you think I’m fat?” Hesitantly he would reply, “Well, you can afford to lose a few pounds, Karen.” Of course I would become all huffy and hurt, that isn’t the reply I wanted from the one who was considered the best one of the lot in our family of seven.

Michael got all the brains, looks and that incredible mix of both strength and gentleness. When you’re the only brother amongst four sisters, you’re put in the position of being the ‘king.’ Michael wasn’t a self-ordained or self-righteous idol. We unfairly placed him there and he proved he could handle such a lofty position.

You’d think we girls would be seething with jealousy, but our family has never experienced that useless, destructive, wasted emotion. We lived in a three-bedroom home and Michael had his own room. I repeat, a family of seven, three bedrooms and Michael had his own room. He also had one of the five-bed pillows when; actually, our family desperately needed seven. Whoever went to bed first got a precious pillow, but seldom when you awoke was it there because it was swiped from under your slumbering head. You couldn’t steal Michaels’ pillow though, because he’d tie it to the bedpost and attach a cowbell to it so that the slightest movement would signal that a ‘thief’ was about to attack. “Hey Ma, “ Michael asked years later, “Why didn’t you just run out and buy two more pillows?”

I tell ya, you can’t throw curves at the women in our family. “You know, honey, I never even thought of it,” she replied.

In Mother’s defense she had a hectic life raising five kids and my father. It was fun being raised in an active household with a highly dramatic mom and a Hollywood handsome dad. Michael seemed to roll, but I didn’t fare as well.

Michael went on to eight years of college but stopped short of his doctorate.

“Why?” we asked.

“I don’t like titles and I want to do it all on my own.”

“Do what?” we pressed on.

“Escape from this funny farm,” he winked.

I ask you, how many go from janitor (in his college years) to senior executive at a huge company? He never once boasted, or even mentioned when he got a promotion or a raise, but when you swap flannel shirts and jeans for suits and silk ties, you sorta can tell it’s no longer mop and bucket. But no matter how high Michael climbed on the corporate ladder, the farm remained in his blood, and during summer vacations, he’d toiled ‘The Good Earth.’

When you lose a loved one in a tragic farming accident you seriously doubt your ability to cling to your sanity. When you can’t scream loud and long enough to purge yourself from the deep pain, you must seek other ways to cope.

It’s been 11 years now since I started walking. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t step briskly to divert my mind and dispel the energy I would otherwise use for mourning. “Michael, my Michael,” I want to cry out, “I can easily now slip into a size 12, and when the tag is mismarked, a size 10. Am I getting too thin?”
I can almost hear him say, “Well, you can afford to put on a few pounds, Karen.”

And if I could have him back, I would so willingly do just that. My brother gave me the gift of health---physically, that is.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com