My Brother's Journal

I think my desire to write comes quite naturally.  My paternal grandmother often wrote prose and poetry, as does my dad.  My mother writes, too; Lovely words expressing moments in time, and feelings.  What I didn't know is  what a good writer my brother was.  Perhaps, the  best writer in our family.   That was a delightful discovery I  made this past weekend.

Although Walt lived in St. Louis, he stored many of his things at our mother's home, including a mid size duffel bag. Whenever he came to visit he'd go into  the garage to check on his  stuff, and would  point to the duffel bag telling  mom he didn't want her to ever toss it out, but didn't want her to open it.  She never did. It became kind of a family joke - "What the heck could Walt have in that bag, and why was he so secretive about it ?"  Mom would just shrug her shoulders and say, " I don't know, but your brother told me not to get into it, and I'm not going to."

That changed on Sunday.  Since my brother has been gone almost a year, I told our mother it was time to open the bag.  So that's what we did. No hundred dollar bills or rare coins, something much more meaningful - greeting cards and letters from family and friends , mostly dated from the mid to late 1980's - some from the early 1990's .   There were business cards from places Walt worked at while he lived in Phoenix, and lots of pens and pencils.  Then from the bottom of the bag, I lifted a file folder filled with a stack of papers. I saw immediately  it was   Walter's printing, and to my great, happy  surprise found he had kept a journal of sorts.  What a wonderful gift.  His thoughts, his words in his own writing . My eyes opened wide, I excitedly called out, "Mom, look ! Walt wrote these " , then began to read aloud:


by Walter Cooney

#1

What is it 
when they say, " I was touched by love"
I see love in her eyes every 
time I look into them
and when she talks I hear
love in  my ears, when we kiss
I can taste her love 
on my lips, but when I hold
her tight in bed, it's more 
than love, it's two
becoming one.

#2
This is it. The last day.
I have not seen everything there 
is to see, and I do not know 
what every man should know.  My
love for people is enormous, and love
for life even more. But this is it. 
 I ask myself, Where does a man go 
when there's no where to go?
Nothing left to be done
I don't know

# 3

My dad. He must be the smartest man in the world; the smartest man I know.  I could learn so much
from him. His fault is he will not listen to what I have to say, or give me a chance to raise my own opinion.
My mother is my Best Friend. I would , all though I can't talk to her all the time the way I want too.  Mom is always there trying to help me - like no one else. Never once can I remember mom saying, "Walt, you can't do it", or you won't make it. And the same goes for my sister, Kathy - I can't think of anything I am afraid of,
except going to my grave without my mother- sister- father knowing how I love them.


This last one brought tears to our eyes.  In that moment I wished with all my might Walt could be sitting there in that room with us. I wanted to hug my brother,  and tell him we did know how much he loved us, and to say,   "please Walt, always know how very much Mom, Dad and me love you".

                                                                         #


postscript:  These were just a few samples from Walt's journal.  Some of the writing will remain private as he would want it that way, some  I may share from time to time, as I want others to read his words to  see what a good writer he was...  his poems and essays  both  heartwarming and heart wrenching -    presenting a better picture of himself  during that time  than any camera shot ever could.  

*** To read my blog WRITE ON, WRITERS!  and more about my brother's journal please link to
http://writingnorthidaho.blogspot.com/2011/04/write-on-writers.html