My first memory is of Kenny.
I was five years old and scared out of my mind for his safety—my shrieking must have snapped me out of my nebulous infant amnesia. Out of the haze, I found my brother up to his knees and sinking fast in a glob of thick mud. It was pulling him under, and I didn’t have the strength to save him.
I had followed him off the beaten path (away from the playground) and into danger (a muddy construction site) because I desperately wanted to be close to him.
To my relief, my screams alerted our mother, who came and heroically yanked him out of what I believed to be his impending doom.
After his rescue, we walked to a nearby water fountain, and as I watched our mother clean the caked mud off his tan legs—his shoes completely ruined—I realized I had just saved his life (never mind that he was never in any real danger, but what does a five-year-old know?)
Growing up, I continued to follow him around, much to his annoyance. He was five years older than me, giving us enough distance to have little to nothing in common. But everything I became was from watching and wanting to be like him.
I couldn’t help but hang off of his heels—he was beautiful to look at and had a wicked intellect. Everything about him fascinated me: the music he listened to, the sports he played, the friendships he cultivated, and the mathematic equations and sheet music he quickly understood. I wanted to see the world through his eyes.
When I was 19, and he was 24, we moved to central California together. We lived in a quiet neighborhood at the base of a mountain that we often hiked to the peak of. Along the way to the top, he showed me his favorite spots to rest and drink in the view of the valley and town below. I fell in love with the world as he saw it.
It was there, in our little house at the base of the mountain, where I first tried wine with him. I immediately hated the taste and how it dried out my mouth as it went down. But my disgust did not stop him from drinking the rest of the bottle alone in his room.
I didn’t think anything of it, just as I wouldn’t think anything of my heavy drinking that began in my mid-twenties. There was nothing abnormal to me about the habit he was forming. We lived in a college town, had been raised in a family of drinkers, and both found work in bars, restaurants, and wineries. It was frightfully normal to start a drinking habit.
Only after his death did I realize the unquestionable danger of consuming alcohol and that I had already started my descent down the same dark and ominous path.
When Kenny died at the age of 31 (6 years ago this month), the image of an indestructible youth was obliterated. That boy stuck in the mud sank into the deep, and all we could do this time was watch. In my desperate attempt to stay tethered to him, I became increasingly dependent on alcohol and other drugs.
I fell in love with wine like my brother did, slowly and over time. Alcohol became my best friend, safe confidant, loving family, and closest lover. A bottle was always there when I needed it. But the wine that I loved was also determined to kill me
I always hear him in my laugh and see him in the way my eyes crinkle when I smile. My hands and feet are nearly identical in shape to his. His dry sarcasm, which could be read as cruelty, rubbed off on me. But I always felt most connected to him while I was drinking and sinking into the dark abyss, even more so now that I am attempting to pull myself out. My heart breaks at the thought of him trying to free himself without ever asking for help.
All of the things I adored about my brother are what I love about myself. I am intrinsically linked to him but can’t go back in time to pull him out of the sludge. I can only do that for myself by grabbing hold of a branch, calling out for help, and using all the strength and knowledge I’ve gained to survive the sinking mud. What better way to show him how much I love him than by saving myself from alcohol’s death grip?
love you more than wine,
Lindsey