Seventeen years ago, my then 17-year-old brother died on September 17. Six days later, my soon-to-be 17-year-old son was born. I’m not sure why that’s so trippy, but it is. Is there something particularly special about the number 17?
According to wikipedia, 17 has "virtually no interesting geometric, arithmetic, or mystical qualities.” Hmmm.
That said, according to Plutarch's Moralia, the Egyptians have a legend that the end of Osiris' life came on the seventeenth of a month, on which day it is quite evident to the eye that the period of the full moon is over. Now, because of this, the Pythagoreans call this day "the Barrier," and utterly abominate this number.
Yikes. I don’t know what any of that means, but my son is now the same age my brother was when he died, and that’s trippy.
Seventeen.
Josh was a neat kid. He had been known to play up to 6-hour long games of Tetris on his ‘Gameboy.’ He thought about and talked about sex and boobs like they were magical unicorns he would one day venture off to discover. He liked strange music and Japanese cartoons. He loved America, and hoped to defend Her one day. He was annoying, but kind; troubled, but sweet. My god, he was only 17.
Ben is nothing like Josh. But for the kindness and annoying teenager stuff, the two of them would not have had a lot to talk about. Ben loves baseball and fishing. He’d rather clean his boat for the hundredth time than even think about picking up an Xbox controller. Sure, he likes weird music, but he’s not really a cartoon-guy. He’s tender-hearted and thoughtful; athletic, funny and beautiful. He’s a perfect balance of the best of his mother and me. My god, he’s already 17.
My father died when he was 41. My 41st birthday was (several) years ago, and I remember how strange it was to outlive my hero. That was a weird day. This feels similar for some reason. Josh would have turned 34 last January. It’s strange to think about what he would be like today. Would he have actually joined the Army or Air Force? Would he have gone to college? Would he now be married with children of his own? Would he have proved me wrong and become Ben’s favorite uncle? Would he have come to watch him play baseball? Would they have gone fishing together?
Seventeen.
The passing of time is inevitable. There’s nothing you or I or anyone can do to change that. We can’t slow it down, speed it up, stop, or go back. Oh, how I wish that we could. Because I would. I would go back and tell Josh that I love him. That I thank God for him. That I’m proud of him, and I am in awe of the things that make him who he is.
But then I’d want to speed up to six days later and welcome my baby boy into the world again. To meet my heart again. To look into his mothers tear-filled eyes and tell her “good job” again. “You did it” again. “He’s beautiful” again.
And then I’d slow it down. I’d grieve the loss of my brother differently as I celebrate every minute I share with Ben. Every single second of his life.
Seventeen.
We have no control over time, but we get to choose how we fill it.
Seventeen has "virtually no interesting geometric, arithmetic, or mystical qualities”? I disagree. I miss you, Josh. Ben, I love you. I thank God for you. I am so proud of you. I am in awe of the wonderful, beautiful, incredible things that make you who you are.
Happy birthday, son.
Joy follows sorrow.