Our mothers were sisters, inseparable and housewives with young children. That made me and my cousin Jimmy constant companions throughout childhood. Weekdays, weekends, holidays and vacations,-didn’t matter we were always together. When we hit the teenage years, we lived in the same town and went to the same school, our circles of friends overlapped. I dated his friends, He dated mine. Our friends dated each other. On the weekends, my aunts house served as home base for all of us to reconvene before and after our social excursions and errands. Things have changed drastically over the years but I hold those memories close to my heart.
There was a time when Jimmy was friendly and gregarious with lots of friends. He was fearless and easy-going. He was an instigator with a devilish laugh and could talk his way out of anything. Unfortunately, it was not enough to escape the destruction of alcohol. The last few years of his life spent living bottle to bottle, each shoving him closer to the inevitable tragic end. He drank until his body completely failed. He was 9 months younger than me. He died when he was 35 years old. Today was his birthday.
I visited the cemetery twice since he died. Each time, I sat at the foot of his grave on the bench and pondered how things could of been different for him. Watching alcohol defeat him over the years was like watching a voilent train wreck in slow motion. You can see where it came from, map out where it was heading, and even move out of the way. Any attempts to divert, slow or stop the train in its path of destruction were unsuccessful.
How I wish things turned out differently for him.
