by Kelly Mastanduno

Created on: January 06, 2011

In a home where no father existed, and my mother was always working, it was my big brother who taught me how to tie my shoes, made my chicken soup when I was sick, and showed me how to roll the perfect snowball. I remember the first time. I was 5 and woke up to the news that school was cancelled. More than getting to play hooky from school, I was exited about spending the whole day, just Nick and me.

He bundled me up with his big sweatshirt and wool hat, both of which he had to cuff up a few times for me. I couldn’t find my gloves, so he put two pairs of socks on my hands. He did the same for himself and I couldn’t stop giggling at the thought of mom coming home to see us wearing our socks on our hands.

We hit the backyard running! I tried grabbing handfuls of snow to throw at him, but it just kept falling apart. So Nick showed me how to gather the snow in my hands and pack it down until it was a solid ball. (I don’t think he really packed down the snowballs he threw at me because they never hurt). I think we were outside for hours! My hands were wet and frozen and Nick has snow all over his head and neck from my ruthless barrage of snowball attacks. If he regretted teaching me how to make the snowballs, he never let on. For me, it was the best day ever. Every snowfall after that, be it a sprinkling or blizzard, Nick and I were racing outside to blast each other in snowball fights.

When I was 10 Nick was diagnosed with cancer. He had to spend the months before Christmas in the hospital. I was sitting out in the snow covered backyard waiting for news from my mom who went to see his doctor at the hospital earlier that morning. The night stars were just beginning to show and I wished on the biggest, brightest one I could find that Nick would be home to have a snow ball fight with me. It was lonely in the quiet, snow covered yard without him. I could just barely hear the echoes of all the laughter we had shared back there.

As tears started to well up in my eyes at the thought of Nick laying in a hospital bed, a cold knock hit my head. I whipped around to face the gate and there was Nick, huge smile on his face and another snowball ready for launch in his hand. His head was bald and his clothes were saggy on him, but he was my Nick. And he was ready for a snowball fight! He couldn’t stand being out in the cold for very long, but we threw as many snowballs as we could manage to put together in that short amount of time.

At thirty three I no longer have my brother. He was well for many years and I thank God for that time. He found a good, loving, supportive woman and married her. While she was pregnant with their first child, he fell sick again. This time there was no leaving the hospital. One snowy day, as I sat by his bedside and we tried to talk without crying, he told me some of his happiest times were spent in that snowy backyard with me. He asked me to do two things for him after he passed. One was to make sure I didn’t let anybody ever treat me with any less love than he had, and the second was to teach his unborn son to make snowballs.

It’s the first snowfall of the year and my nephew is now 5. He’s on his way over for the afternoon and I’ve got the sweatshirts and socks all ready.

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