While in Nova Scotia, my Dad asked me to look through a box of burned CDs that belonged to my brother to make sure nothing important was going to be thrown out. Most of it was garbage, but I saw a mix CD my brother had put together for himself and packed it along for the drive back to Ottawa.
I should interrupt here and state that my brother’s taste in music was about as eclectic as mine is, so it should be no surprise that “I Shot The Sheriff” and “Natural Woman” featured alongside no fewer than THREE versions of “It’s Raining Men.”
I didn’t look at the track list before playing it — every time a new song came on and I caught myself saying, “why, Matt, WHY?!!”
I could almost hear his voice in my head, saying “aw, c’mon, Liss! This stuff is AWESOME!”
I don’t really know what I feel about the afterlife, or if I believe in it at all — my thoughts on the finality of death change from day to day — but I’ve been throwing up a request from time to time, covering my bases I guess, asking my brother to keep an eye out for Baby-The-Last on the off-chance he’s hanging around and has any sway with the forces of the Universe.
There is comfort in the idea that the energy of those we have loved sticks around for awhile after they are gone.
Since I found out I was pregnant, I have been referring to this baby as “she” — a hunch or wishful thinking, but I like the idea of BTL being a girl. Since that drive back to Ottawa last week, though, playing my brother’s musical atrocity of a mix disc, I’ve heard “It’s Raining Men” no fewer than 8 times on the radio, in movies, over the sound system in a store. It’s as though he’s sending me a message.
Or yanking my chain. He is my little brother, after all, so that would be as likely as anything.
In theory I could probably find out at my next ultrasound, but I found out ahead of time with my three boys. I think I would like this one to stay a surprise until her birthday. After a bit of a scare while on vacation, everything seems to be settling down and knock-on-wood the rest of this pregnancy will be uneventful. I can’t help worrying about something going wrong — a strong history of miscarriage will do that to a gal. It’s hard to feel positive when you always expect the worst.
It makes me so sad to think that he will never get to meet this little one. If I listen carefully, though, I can almost hear my brother saying, “it’s okay, Liss, you got this.”
I hope he’s right.