Dear Bryant

in loving memory of Andrew Bryant Budd

Sewanee hospitality. While posting I took in a peregrine soaring right here in a languid arc, followed by a sleepy and sun-infused summer rainstorm. Thank you, LH and SH. EQB.

Warm greetings, friends, from my favorite place in the world, beautiful Sewanee, Tennessee. A prevailing theme in my thoughts lately has been hospitality, and I’ve been the happy beneficiary of some extravagant examples this week. I’d shout out folks but suspect you’d rather stay under the radar. Or maybe I’ll just write about you after this trip. At any rate, if you’re one of those people, I think you know who you are. Thank you.

I came here to drop off my son Asa for his sophomore year. It is hard to believe a year has passed since the freshman drop-off. You can read about that experience if you like here.

Last night Janisse Ray’s summer memoir course culminated in an open mic reading. I shared an excerpt from Rainwater Road, which I’ve been working on for a long time. The subject matter is deeply personal, much of it regarding the painful subject of my brother Bryant’s disappearance and the discovery, two and a half years later, of his suicide. And much of it, just as personal, is full of beauty and humor and childhood memories that have brought me great joy to recall.

Janisse encourages us to “show some love” when we see something we appreciate in one another’s writing. It was good to hear that what my colleagues seemed to hear most in this excerpt was love for my brother.

What they picked up on is very real and present and has increased, or become more accessible for me, through the process of writing about him and our childhood. A long conversation at Stirling’s coffee shop this morning with a dear Sewanee friend “Smith” (Gerald Smith) has me reflecting on how those who leave us never really leave us. And our love for them can continue to grow after they’re gone.

These times are tough. Be good to one another, and gentle with yourself.

Dear Bryant,

When that white Dodge Ram comes jostling in from the fields kicking up clouds of dust, you are usually in it with Daddy. You only live on Rainwater Road the first seven years of your life, but you probably get to know that land better than anybody else. In my mind’s eye you are always outdoors, and always smiling.

I remember holding you as a toddler, your wispy blonde hair tickling my chin since it stands straight up. You wear a pastel-colored cotton overall with no sleeves needed to cover your brown shoulders. Your wiry arms are loose around my neck, and you smell like apple juice. Dorothy, always the little mama, holds you more than I do, but we both love it. Even that memory is outside, cool grass doing the same thing to my bare toes your hair does to my chin.

I remember that smile looking up at us from dark pond water where you kick holding onto your orange life preserver, squeezing your whole face in joy and the thrill of the ice cold you had just plunged into. And I remember it appearing like a sunburst after you rounded the last base or pitched another batter out.

In one of my favorite photos you stand next to Daddy, both of you dressed in camouflage, beside a jet black hunting Lab named Digger. You wear a John Deere cap on your head, which barely grazes his hip. In each hand you hold a limp mallard by the tail. Next to you the ducks look enormous. Daddy has one hand on your shoulder, and together you emanate pride and contentment. Your smile takes over your whole little face until your brown eyes appear almost shut. There it is—the magnetic and irresistible grin that casts magic spells.

Later you will use that grin to charm girls and teachers. A few of your buddies from high school describe one night after graduation when it comes in handy. Three of you are out howling at the moon (as Daddy likes to say) well after midnight when hunger pangs strike. You follow the sweet scent of Big Gulps to to a 7-Eleven that’s closing. The young attendant is locking the door as you plead with her through the glass. She shakes her head repeatedly, but you are determined. You attempt to bargain: might she let you in if you dance a jig? Her eyes are tired, but she suppresses a laugh and says she’d actually like to see that. Your friends describe a few minutes of unsurpassed entertainment, all gangly elbows and knees as they hoot and stomp and clap a mess of something resembling rhythm.

Of course that night you get your fill of fried Hot Pockets and a Big Gulp, but we know it’s the smile more than the jig that works the magic.

How could we start there and wind up here? From the dream of our childhood to what happened to you? The dream was set up for you. The meals and songs and antics and prayers of your parents and older siblings before your arrival prepare the scene. You are the perfect next season of a perfect dream, the fourth movement of a quintet. The first three in anticipation are full of scherzo and rhapsody, and you continue the trend, for a good long while.