The picture on my refrigerator is twenty-seven  years old.   Patsy gave it to me when she came to visit and sightsee in Washington, DC with her two children.  It is a bit faded but you can still make out the color of the pale sand below Jay's and my feet .  "I had this and wanted to give it to you," Patsy said.   

I looked at the picture and it seemed like it belonged to someone else.  "I remember that trip with your parents, " laughed Patsy.  "We went to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina."

Sitting at my computer today, I try to recall specific memories about That trip, but my mind fails me.  I want so bad to remember because this picture is one of Jay and me together when we were young.  I'm about sixteen, stretched out on a striped canvas lounger, the kind with the silver metal frame and white tassels that dangle around the edge of the cloth.  I remember this, but only because I look at the picture each time I open my refrigerator.

Jay, is nine and very, very blonde, a towhead.  That’s what my dad always says.  "You wouldn't believe it," he says, "but when I was little, I used to have blonde hair, white, just like Jay's."  This makes my dad proud because Jay is his only son.  Jay grew up to be over six feet tall, still blonde with striking blue eyes.  Eyes the color of the North Carolina sky on a warm spring day.  My dad is a short man, 5'7 with olive skin and the same striking blue eyes. Yes, my dad is very proud of his son.

The picture.  Jay stands behind me.  At nine, he was short, considering how tall he grew to be.  He had a growth spurt after he turned eighteen, growing another three to four inches, stopping just shy of  6'3.  This day, Jay has on one of his favorite shirts -- an orange jersey with white numbers that reaches almost to his knees.  He's at the gawky, fumbling age all boys go through.  All knees and elbows and wide-gapped toothy grins.  This insult is compounded by his haircut.  I'm sure it was my mother's doing.  Jay's white hair is long to his ears, with bangs cut straight -- well almost straight anyway -- across the tops of his sun bleached eyebrows.  He has this huge grin on his face because while I'm lying on the lounger trying to give my best "I'm sixteen, look at me, I'm beautiful" smile, he's standing behind me with his fingers forming a "V" right above my head.   All the time, I'm clueless and still smiling mysteriously.

I wonder if Patsy had time to warn me before she took the picture?  Or did my younger brother slip that all time famous gesture in right before the flash snapped?  But today, when I think back, it doesn't matter because my brother and only sibling died 2-1/2 years ago.  At the age of twenty-eight Jay was diagnosed with colon cancer.  Four Years later, after numerous clinical trials, chemotherapy and four surgeries, his body gave up even though his mind was still strong.

My memory of the day Jay died isn't pale or faded or faint. He sits in his favorite recliner with me beside him.   On this day, however, it's me giving Jay the "V" sign.  But this sign is for victory because in his big sister's eyes, Jay lived a life that was victorious in all he did and in the way he died.  And no matter how much that picture fades, in my mind Jay will always be as big and wide and strong as the smile on his nine year old face that summer day at Myrtle Beach.