Almost Gone

“I don’t remember growing older; when did they?” (“Fiddler on the Roof”)

Well, of course I don’t remember growing older. I’m old now, and I can’t remember much.

But I do remember the past 18 years with my nephew, Brandon.

He is about to start a new life as a freshman at the University of Maryland. Brandon is excited and ready – we hope – to leave home. I’ll let his parents worry about the practical things: Will he like his roommate? Does he have enough contact lens solution? Will he ever do laundry?

Instead, I’ll wax poetic about my own worries for him and look back at our time together. Does he have enough empathy for people? What kind of place will the world be when he is ready to enter it as an adult? Did I spend enough quality aunt-time with him?

Will he text me from college once in a while?

I have to admit that being an aunt is easy. When Brandon would get cranky or involved in video games to the point that a bomb could explode in the room and he wouldn’t notice, I’d leave and go home. It’s not like being a parent, where you have to stick around, even on the worst days, and where you worry about them every minute, even as you worry about your role as a parent.

No, as an aunt, it is all about fun. I think of the first time I took him to the Jersey shore. His mother sent every piece of aqua equipment imaginable, from goggles to shoes to those swimmies kids wear on their arms, a Styrofoam bubble and enough sunscreen to live for years in the desert. When we first entered the ocean and he felt the waves, he clung tightly to me and implored, “Stop the waves, T, stop the waves.” I tried to explain that although I might appear to be all powerful as his aunt, it was actually beyond my realm to stop the waves.

We liked to play catch in the backyard when he was little, and, as he grew, I’d throw the ball as high as I could. One day I was hitting balls to him when his friend came over to play. “You better back up,” he warned. “My aunt can really hit.” Few compliments have meant more to me than that expression of admiration.

We went to movies together that he enjoyed (while I enjoyed a nap) and a few we enjoyed equally. When I couldn’t stop crying during “My Dog Skip,” he patted me to comfort me and later told my sister that the movie was “heartbreaking.” An astute movie review from a seven-year-old, I thought.

Years ago, when I had him laughing hysterically about some silly thing, Brandon told me that I was the funniest person he knew. “Do you know a lot of funny people?” I inquired. “Yes, I do,” he asserted. I think he was six at the time.

And then there was the infamous Sno-Cap “incident” (which must always be referenced with “air quotes;” even as a child, Brandon was big on “air” quotes). I wasn’t actually present for the Sno-Cap “incident,” but I experienced the fallout. Brandon was at the movies with the other movie fanatic in the family, his father, when he shoved a few too many (probably something like 60) Sno-Caps in his mouth and thought he was choking. His father took him to the bathroom, got him water and took him home, concerned that he was still choking. On the way home, they stopped at the police station, where they called the Rescue Squad (manned, ironically, by the person from the movies who sold him the Sno-Caps), who examined him and assured them both that he was fine. For years afterwards, Brandon refused to eat at the movies for fear of choking. (I guess the idea of only eating 4-5 Sno-Caps at one time held little or no appeal.) But he was so spooked for so long, that we would be at a movie or a Rutgers basketball game and he’d turn to me to ask, “Am I still breathing?” I told him that if he could ask that question, he was, in fact, able to breathe. He’s gotten over the fear of eating bad food at public events and understands now that he is breathing all of the time, but none of us will ever forget the Sno-Cap “incident.”

I remember the first basketball game we went to together. He was fascinated less by the play on the court than by the numbers changing on the scoreboard. A few years later he knew enough to remark instead on the use of a zone defense vs. man-to-man. You can only imagine how that thrilled me as a basketball fanatic.

Over time, as he got more involved in his own activities, my role was simply to tag along to watch. I have seen many boring T-ball games, more than a few soccer games in the blistering heat or the freezing cold, and I witnessed his one brief moment in an off-off-Broadway, middle school production of “West Side Story,” where he played a Jet – or was he a Shark? All I remember is that he was in the “rumble” scene, brandishing a paper towel roll as his weapon.

Every now and then I was called on to consult on a school project, but much less often than I anticipated. When he did his college essays, I was ready, willing and able to assist, but I found his essay so well-written that I could barely suggest a thing to change. Not that I was surprised. As his English-major aunt, I would expect him to have at least a modicum of writing ability. Luckily, he never needed my help in math. It is more likely that I would need his.

It is harder and harder these days to spend time together or even to communicate with Brandon – except by text. After all, this is the kid who once texted his mother from the bathroom because he needed a new roll of toilet paper (yes, this is a true story). Now he is out of school and spends time with his friends (who, much to my pleasure, call me “Aunt T”), works part-time and devotes countless hours doing what all boys his age do – playing video games, downloading music and staring at small screens while tapping on their keyboards. When we head out for an infrequent lunch together, he likes to play songs for me from his iPod that he has picked out because he thinks I’ll like them. While I don’t think we have any of the same songs on our respective iPods, I have to admit that the kid has a good ear for what I might enjoy.

I guess that the infrequent times spent together in these latter years will help me adjust to his absence, being away at college, busy with his friends, his studies and God-knows what else. It is his parents’ job to counsel him, and I am sure they have done it well. The advice from his aunt is somewhat different. Before he went to Cancun with his friends as his graduation gift from Mom and Dad, I advised him that if he got so drunk that he felt like he was going to throw up he should stick his finger down his throat and do it. You don’t get that kind of wisdom from parents or just any elder, you know, and I was young once, too.

Brandon is starting the best time of his life, with so many years and so much promise ahead. I can’t help wondering what life has in store for him, and if he is ready to tackle it all head on. I can’t help wondering if he knows everything he should know. I can’t help wondering if I will be able to dance at his wedding.

I can’t help wondering if I can learn to Skype so I can “see” him once in a while. He promised to Skype me (a noun used as a verb – horrors) on my birthday in October, so I have until then to get up to speed.

But mostly I can’t help wondering where the time has gone, even as I am thankful for every minute we spent together.

I just know it is time for him to go. Good luck, Brandon. Do great things, have fun and, once in a while, think about the times we spent together. I know I will.