To My Brother (L)

Dear John,

I’m sitting in bed, sipping Baileys and thinking about you. I always think of you when I have Baileys and it’s near Christmas. Remember that Christmas? I was in college, I think you might have been in your last year at WPI. We were home on break, sitting on your bed in the House in Warren (aka the Munckin’s house). The house was new to us, it felt like we had rented an old farmhouse for the holidays. You brought home a bottle of Baileys in that special can; I’d never had any. You told me it was the quintessential Christmas drink, taught me how to fill the ice first. We drank from short glasses, sipping with the Christmas lights I’d put up for you illuminating our hands as we raised them. We talked about Christmas memories, memories, dreams. I don’t remember the specifics. If it was a movie scene the conversation would be indistinct, the camera panning our faces lit by the glow of green, red, blue, yellow—more serious than laughing, a quietness around us, zooming out to the snow blanketing the house. If it was a movie, I’d put in a fireplace, the flames softly dancing, warming our feet. My memory has that cozy, peaceful feel to it.

This is possibly my favorite adult Christmas memory and one of my favorites of you. We were drinking not to get drunk, we’d done that plenty, that’s not the job of Baileys. Its job is to mull over the savory sweetness of the season. We were equals, you spoke to me as an adult, no age gap between us. We were equals, the same family, the same bittersweet yearning Christmas ignites within us—to feel, to absorb, to have that spark of life Christmas used to give our family once a year. There was no party after, no friends coming over, no childhood jobs to do, no homework—there was nothing, but you and me and that bottle of Baileys. We’d found a new adult way to celebrate Christmas together; I had your undivided attention, just for that quiet dark night.