The bend in the river just past the bridge was one of Billy’s favorite fishing spots.
Trout were rare in the Bluestone, but he would still suit up in waders and bring out the fly fishing gear.
Billy was an optimist. One day that big fish would bite.
And so he would stand in the water for hours. Casting and waiting.
I don’t think the Big One ever took the hook, but that didn’t matter to Billy.
It was just a matter of time.
We stand on the bridge as a family. The girls. The sisters. Billy’s wife.
I am sure the ATV visitors have no clue who we are – this cluster of people standing on the roadside and staring at the river.
They are on vacation and happy, as they should be. We are a family mourning the life of our brother.
Billy died in December 2018.
We waited until summer to scatter his ashes.
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We were a family of five kids. Billy the oldest, me the youngest. A 12-year difference separated us in calendar years.
But, in the moments of life, and laughter, and anger, and tears, Billy and I became as close as two siblings could be.
Oh, how we would rail at each other – especially on Thursday nights as we fought over privileges to the color TV.
Billy wanted to watch a World War II drama. I was obsessed with “Happy Days.”
We would argue and yell.
Soon, I would kick him. He would retaliate with a headlock.
Mom was quick to intervene with admonishing words and threats of punishment. Billy and I would listen intently with an appropriate level of subdued contriteness.
After Mom left the room we would both roll our eyes, and recommence the fight.
This time we were quieter as we battled over the channel.
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Billy was the only one, of five, to move away.
Four states away, to be precise. Virginia, Tennessee, a speck of Georgia and Alabama.
I know the route without checking MapQuest.
His home was in the same city as our newspaper’s corporate office. I would usually call while en route to an editors’ meeting.
We would plan to meet up. It never worked.
My time was structured. He was on the clock.
Next time, we would say.
Next time.
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Cancer is an ugly, nasty, evil bitch.
It sneaks up on the unsuspecting and destroys families.
Billy was healthy, until he wasn’t.
It was only a few months between diagnosis and death.
I did make it to Birmingham.
We laughed.
I cried.
It’s hard to watch your big brother die.
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Our family is a traditional one.
Loved ones – parents, grandparents and ancestors beyond – are entombed as our Appalachian culture dictates.
Gravesites and mausoleums are where we mourn. Chiseled granite marks our heritage.
We bring flowers on holidays and visit when memories overflow and tears can no longer be contained.
The cemetery is a cold environment. But we sit, and talk and overcome the chill.
It’s not about the place. It’s about the memories.
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Billy is the first in our family to be cremated. It’s his request.
We acquiesce.
He asks that his ashes be scattered in the Bluestone. The place where he spent days fishing in harmony with nature.
Brother Eddie takes them to the water while we watch from the bridge.
In a moment, he is one with the river, the sunbeams and the ever-elusive trout.
There is no tombstone, but he is home.
It was just a matter of time.
Samantha Perry is editor of the Daily Telegraph. Contact her at sperry@bdtonline.com. Follow her @BDTPerry.
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