You Took the Long Way Home

Thirty years ago today, October 26, 1979, a Harris County deputy sheriff found my mother at her office and informed her that her son was dead. My younger brother, Wade, always took the long way, the hard way, the way less traveled, the way of his own distant drummer.

I was three years and three months old when he was born. He was the little brother tagging along, the little brother always getting into trouble - banging his head on his crib, playing with matches, and "loaning" someone a bicycle (which we never saw again). He was the kid always in the wrong place at the wrong time for the right reason. Always hearing his own music, always taking the long way.

He found his passion and his talent early; he was a gifted drummer who spent hours practicing in his upstairs bedroom oblivious to anything and everyone. Surrounding himself with like-minded friends and doing things my parents didn't always approve of, and of course, always getting caught. Smoking pot, wrecking the car, threatening his girlfriend's stepfather - always well-intentioned, always with a right-set heart, but always making an error in judgement. Things most could do and eke by, my brother did and ran smack into our father while trying to sneak back into the house.

He followed his distant drummer the long way home one night. Riding his motorcycle, he missed the turn and sailed across the bayou, hitting the embankment and breaking his neck. He died instantly, is what the sheriff told my mother. It was the first night she didn't wait up for him is what she told the sheriff.

He took the long way home.