Chapter 3 - Stolen Moments

The new Michael's birth came with no complications. The weather hadn't cooperated, brewing up a small snow storm that made my father's trip to the hospital on the mid-December night more difficult than it should have been. But everyone made it there safely, and he came into the world with a spank and a cry at 7:18 am in the morning.

As the nurse wrapped him in a blanket, and placed him tenderly in my mother's arms, I tried to enter his body. Wanting so much to fix the anguished memories of my own first day, I willed myself to take his place. But instead of seeing my mother's face through his untrained eyes, I glimpsed an utter blackness. An absence of light, sound, sensation took hold of me for a period of time I couldn't measure, as if I had lapsed into complete emptiness.

With a sudden flood of light, I found myself still inside the room, looking on the scene once again as an outsider. My father and Timmy had since come into the room. Dad stroked my mother's hair as they both stared down at the blotchy skin, the patchy black hair, the midnight blue eyes of my newborn brother's exposed head.

As much as I might want it, I couldn't have my brother's life. I could only watch and pretend it was mine. And from that first day in the hospital, to the day they took him home, to the days after filled with rocking and lullabies and cooing and pampering, that's just what I did.

From infant to toddler to young boy, I watched little Michael's young life unfold, trying to picture myself having the same joys, tears and confusion. His little brain developed, and with it the flash of consciousness informed by flickering memories. The reactions, wants and needs that would shape his adult life began forming from the isolated incidents that would live on only as seemingly disconnected pictures from a movie made long ago, sepia toned and incoherent.

Later in life, he may remember the sharp pain of a scraped knee after tripping on the asphalt driveway when three; the loud screaming, uncontrolled, as he ran toward his mother; the soft kiss of her lips on the wound and the calming sound of her voice.

He may remember the first and only meeting with his paternal grandparents in New York, who died too soon after; the plastic covered couch; the strange green cloth chair that seemed to swallow him up; the pure joy of running through the backyard laughing as he chased the dog.

He may remember the anger in his father's voice after Timmy tricked him into using a curse word; the harsh slap, so unexpected; the flow of tears and confusion.

The same images come back to me, and no matter how hard I try, I can't replace his face with mine. I don't even have the memory of a face to superimpose. There are infinite moments that I'd like to steal, but can't. It is a past that I'll always see more vividly than he will, and only in that sense do I own it more than he does. Only in that way can I steal it back from him. And for that past to bring me happiness, I began to realize, I had to in some way keep the story that flowed from it on track, to ensure it ended up the way I wanted it to.

Later, my view and understanding of Michael's past, present and future, would become more interconnected; the images of all three mixing before my eyes as the possible paths leading out of each moment narrowed into fewer and fewer destinations. The choices of childhood would shape the actions of adolescence, which in turn would determine the possibilities of adulthood.

Chapter 2 - Naming It

High up in the clouds I wandered. Among the puffy islands floating in the pale blue sky, even the most restive soul can feel at peace, so I sought them out. The immense masses of vapor, their tops now tinged in the orange light of the setting sun, rolled along in majesty and impermanence. Riding the wind, again in bird form, I was taking a short break from following my family on its journey south, to a new start. Anxious to get back to them, after a short time I drifted back down through the white mist, descending slowly.

Spiraling toward earth, I looked down as abstract patterns gradually transformed themselves into more recognizable details. The patchwork quilt of greens and browns became populated with houses, sheds, barns and other manmade structures. The black roads that bisected them came to life with small dots of color that coursed over them. The lifeblood of human activity that fed the world below became more distinct, until I could spot again the dusty blue sedan that I pursued.

In the time since my death, I was never far from my family, always keeping a silent watch. A new life in Maryland beckoned them and me. The new job offer for my dad came at the right time. It was a chance for them to leave the unhappy memories behind, whether they admitted as much or not.

They couldn't be rid of me by moving, however. My attachment to them was still too strong. I wasn't quite sure of my place in their world; it would take time before I would discover that, but in some way I sensed I did belong with them.

Having lived only a few minutes, I could not measure the passage of time as the living might. The chaos of my birth, the crisis of breath, the blurred visions of human faces, the swarm of activity before the sudden realization of death, seemed to last a lifetime -- and truth be told, it was mine. Now truly a part of eternity, each moment, even the seemingly mundane in which time passed quietly, contained its own epiphany. I could see and appreciate each as a separate thread to be woven into the fabric of a lifetime.

There was another major change in our lives, besides the move. Soon, too soon it seemed, my mother was pregnant again, and the pain of my loss had subsided. As the days passed, I could sense each millimeter that her belly grew, filling with my apparent replacement. The yet-to-be named brother became more human as time moved forward without me. I watched, and on some level remembered my own time in that womb; more sensations than actual memories.

In my refuge of liquid warmth, floating freely in the fluid that bathed me, the all-encompassing darkness was reassuring rather than frightening; engendering a feeling of protection from a hostile world. Sounds, muffled nuisances, filtered through to me from outside occasionally, but it was the accompanying thump of my mother's heart that was a constant bass line, setting the rhythm of my life. Whenever my heartbeat fell into line with hers, I experienced the bliss of perfect belonging and connection.

Relishing these happier sensations, I also became aware of a new and disturbing one: the gnawing ache of envy. As the birth of my brother approached, I felt more and more cheated. Thoughts of what he would have, what should have been mine, began to consume me. Images of what my life could have been washed over me, and colored my view of impending events, as if the two existed in parallel universes, vying with each other, struggling to become reality.

As I neared the car, I noticed a fly buzzing around the back seat of the Ford, annoying Timmy as he tried to mark off his list of out-of-state plates spotted on passing cars. Using the fly, I hid in the corner of the back window, blending in with the black trim, to observe my family up-close, quietly; fooling myself that I was still in some way a part of their lives.

"What kind of car is that daddy?"

"Which one?"

"That one with Ohio plates. The red one."

"That's a Mustang."

"What's a mustang?"

"It's a type of horse. Now try to keep quiet, so you don't disturb your mother."

"I'm ok honey, don't worry. Timmy's not bothering me."

"Have you thought of names yet?"

"I have, but I wanted to check it with you first. I know we already used Michael, but I really like the name, and I want to try again. Does that seem too strange?"

"Maybe, but that's okay."

As they spoke the words, the reality of who and what my brother was and would be, became more evident. The longing for the things he would experience became more acute. The vague hostility that I was feeling toward him became more real.

I was first; he came second. He was stealing from me the things to which I should have been entitled.

Chapter 1 - First Rites

I watched as the dirt piled on my small casket. The miniature wooden box to be the only home my body would know. My first and last residence; I went straight from my mother's arms into its embrace.

It was a bright autumn day -- only the crisp chill in the air, and the scent of decaying leaves betraying the season. It was the kind of day that should cheer the spirit; the kind of day for a boy to jump in a pile of leaves and laugh, carelessly.

My brother might have done just that, if it were a different day. Today, dressed as formally as a three-year-old can be, he sat on my mother's lap kicking his legs up and down as he listened impatiently to the priest explain away the unexplainable; describing a god who calls young children home too soon; claiming a divine plan with a hidden wisdom.

From the very beginning, I found I could inhabit certain creatures in order to spy more closely on the world. Otherwise, with a presence as diffuse as the light filling a room, I could only perceive events remotely. Today I was able to make use of a small chickadee perched in a tree not far from the freshly dug hole. Hopping around from branch to branch, chirping innocently, I was unnoticed by all. Later I would come to understand the limits and possibilities of these possessions, but early on I was drawn to birds, especially the sensation of flight.

Too young, an infant once in body and now in soul, I took in the sad gathering not completely aware of its significance, still unsure of my place in it all. I watched a family that I had never known. In time, I would come to know them, but not in the way I should have.

My father, a thin man in a too-baggy black suit, sat expressionless, emotionless. His hazel eyes seemed empty, betraying the ill-defined sense of sadness that pricked his heart. The vacant stare reflecting the uncertainty of what it was he'd lost. To him, I was just an expectation, a promise, an opportunity, a day dream; but never a person.

My mother leaned her head of raven-black hair on my father's shoulder, her lip trembling, her eyes pressed shut -- an expression of utter sadness that was my unwelcome greeting to this world, and the next. She held my brother's small hand tightly, as if he might escape her too. Her eyes opened briefly, red and sore from crying, to catch a glimpse of the small box; only able to drink in the scene in small doses. We had been connected for nine months, our lives intimately woven together, although she didn't know anything more about me than my father. She would recover and move on, as the living always do and should, but it would take time.

I know now that souls don't age. I know that apart from the body we exist in a kind of limbo, at least for a time. We don't grow as a body might. Yet souls can learn, do gain wisdom gradually. Over the course of years, we watch and we feel and we become aware. The feelings aren't always pleasant, and the awareness never total, but we do have a role to play in the physical world, just not one we've asked for or wanted.

This, my first lesson, was not a happy one. To see the only affect my physical life would have on my family was not comforting. I watched from above, knowing but not yet recognizing the faces that I should have grown to love over time. My father, my mother, and my brother listening to the parish priest mouth the last rites of passage -- my body's first, last and only journey.

Eventually, a marker would be added to the small grave in upstate New York, and only then did I recognize my name as Michael.