Caitlin Hicks

PLAYWRIGHT. AUTHOR. PERFORMER. PRESENTER.

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Since we can remember

This I know about my brother, Greg. He is one of the few people in my life whom I’ve known since I was born. Whose voice I can recognize with only one word. There are a few of us here with a similar relationship to him: he has been part of the fabric of our lives since we can remember.

In a big family such as the one Greg was eldest of,  the older children were usually given tasks in caring for the younger ones. For the older child this taught compassion and parenting skills, for the younger, there was a certain trust that someone was going to be there for you. In retrospect, looking over the photographs we prepared for these days of remembrance I realize that I was the baby on Gregory’s knees in the few pictures I have of that time; that during my baby life, he was there – doing things I will never remember but always know – holding my hand as I learned to walk, feeding me a bottle or putting a spoon in my mouth full of baby food, or just holding me on his lap.

We were proud of the brainy guy at Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena, who talked excitedly to our mother about things we couldn’t comprehend in the kitchen and Greg brought us a new kitty, rescued from experiments at the lab. At 275 Madeline Drive, in Pasadena, across the hall from our bedroom, Greg’s bed was surrounded on all sides by fiction paperbacks stacked up in a messy room with two other boys. He was always home late from a date on a motorcycle and we all overheard phone conversations in the upstairs hallway as we lay on our backs trying to sleep in rooms down the hall; more than once I heard him whisper before hanging up, “I love you” to his girlfriend on the other end, stealing whatever privacy he thought he could scavenge in the darkness.

As a teenager, I remember that we wrote letters to each other when he was overseas and I learned a vulnerable side to him which offset his sometimes scary intensity. He loved the theatre and his wedding to Lynn Donaldson Butler was a study in Renaissance costuming. Their daughter, Jaisan was a bright and gorgeous child, so full of life.

It was years before I noticed him again – he returned from Korea with his beautiful second wife, Young Boon. Then he went to Spain and they had a daughter, Jennifer. I hardly knew him. It was finally through Michelle and Kristina and their visits from San Jose to 2635 Poli Street, which gave me a way back in. The girls were so sweet, so adorable, and fun – and they loved their Daddy. Whatever demons he struggled with, he was at last a family man.

When we visited him in his home in San Jose, Greg was Mr. Mom: making meals, packing lunches, schlepping, sclepping, schlepping them to school and church and activities. He loved the theatre and managed to interest all three of his daughters in participating in the local productions, year round. Many parents drop their kids off for the three or four hour rehearsals; when I knew him, Greg stayed the entire time.

Although my visits were few and far between, he always accommodated them on short notice and introduced me proudly to the other parents as “my sister”. I remember during a rehearsal, a show tune was playing, an inspirational song with easy-to-understand lyrics and a sweeping melody and even I was transported by the music, thinking about how the girls were hearing the words and how it was teaching them the lessons that songs teach. I looked over to Greg who was listening again to this song he had heard in rehearsal many times, his shoulders hunched, his arms folded over his high belt in the way that they folded. And my big brother with the big temper had tears in his eyes. And in that moment, I felt I knew him. He was right there with his girls, living each moment alongside them, making life safe for them, giving them that certain background confidence that someone was there for them.

Greg didn’t say a lot. It’s not like he would pick up the phone to chat. So conversations with him were – well, you had to ask. How are you feeling? His dialysis was hard on him, but he soldiered on, as if the lack of a kidney was a painful annoyance. It slowed him down, it gave him headaches, but he never complained.

This is what I take back with me in my life, sometimes being there simply means that: quietly taking up the space alongside. Trusting that the love you have inside will be evident, no matter what you say.

Acclaimed Debut Novel

Republished by Sunbury Press this summer

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Mother Marcelle's Spaghetti, as discussed in my podcast, "Some kinda woman - Stories of Us"

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