On December 20, 1990, my brother, Mark, died of AIDS at his home on Bainbridge Island, Washington. My mother and father and Mark’s partner of 10 years were there with him. He had been in a coma for about a week and there wasn’t any indication that he was in pain or uncomfortable. In the end, my mother said, “It’s OK, Mark. We’ll be alright. You’ve been a gift to us and we love you. You can go if you want.” And he did.
He was the most wonderful person, and so very different from my other two brothers and me. Smaller in stature, but as equally as extroverted and talkative, he was a will-o-the -whisp. You never, ever knew where he may turn up. “Hey there, I’m calling from Chicago. Well, I don’t know…I’ve never been to Chicago and thought I’d see it.” or this on a post card “Greetings from Rio! The MEN!” He went where his heart (and other parts) lead him.
We all grew up in a big, loud, rough and tumble family. You had to hold your own to get a word in edgewise. He held his own and left us in stiches more often than not. I can see my father now, rolling his eyes, and no doubt thinking to himself, “Where on earth did he come from?” They (Mark and my father) were as opposite as could be - and yet they had a wonderful relatioship. They would needle each other, and pick and poke and goad each other, and say the most outrageous things and then laugh their heads off.
He loved Christmas. He was a great gift giver. As a junior high school student I really liked the rock group Queen, and when they stayed in the hotel in which he worked he got the group to autograph a copy of “News of the World” and dedicate it to me. That was quite the Christmas present. My father had played high school baseball and was captain of the team that one a big local tourney hs senior year (1952). After the game, everyone signed the game ball and gave it to the coach. In 1989 Mark tracked the ball down and gave it to my father for a Christmas present. I’ve seen my father cry on perhaps three occasions my entire life - getting that baseball from Mark was one of them.
My neices (all in the their mid-20s now) thought Mark was the absolute living end. They would all get together in the floor and he’d play Barbies with them and make up stories and situations that were just this side of pornographic. The girls, not getting the entire message, would laugh and scream and giggle. Ken would have his hand up Barbie’s dress, or they’d be in the Dream House having a naked party. On the trip from the funeral home to the graveyard for the burial of my grandmother, Mark and the girls rode in the backseat of other brother’s car. Big mistake. Mark started to joke around, the girls started to laugh and carry on, and they all rolled out of the car at the grave side with tears in their eyes - but they were tears of laughter. Grandma Ruby would have wanted it that way, anyway.
Mark comes to visit when things get tight and stressful. He makes himself known in subtle ways, at just the right time, and I can always feel him being there. I calm down, quiet down, and talk to him. He listens and lets me know that it’ll be alright - whatever it is.
The world is a much quieter, much less lively place without him being here (at least from my perspective). He was fun, and wild, and loving, and flamboyant, and he loved his family and friends with all his heart. “BJ (his nickname for me) - live is for living, baby!”
I miss him terribly, and Christmas has never been quite the same. You were special, Mark, and you will live on in my heart for ever.
