Yes, I get it

My brother Sterling was maybe 14 or 15, which means I was 10 or 11. He got hurt at a beach party at Playa del Rey. Hit his head on one of the round concrete fire pits built right on the sand. Cut his head open and was taken to the hospital for examination ( he had a concussion) and for stitches.

All this was distressing to me, his adoring little sister.

When he was home again--and it seems to me it was the next day--he slept. My mother gave me some kind of warning about him, to be quiet, and something about what he might be like. I wish she hadn't. Whatever she said put some kind of fear into me. And I think I had some kind of built-in fear already.

In the afternoon, I tiptoed past his bedroom door on my way downstairs and soon became aware he had come out of his room and was behind me on the stairs. That was a bit scary, but I got up my guts and turned to look at him, not knowing quite what to expect. It was Sterling. Good. I saw the place on his forehead, the stitches, the reddened area around it. I felt bad about that.

But then he lifted his arms, holding them out in front of him--like Frankenstein's monster--and began walking stiffly, making low, monster noises. His eyes didn't focus on anything. I was scared.

Then he laughed, and then I was mad but also relieved. I adored him, but he could be a jerk.

All this to say, "Oh yes. I see why my little grandchildren might be frightened." They saw me in the hospital, oxygen tube in my nose, needle in my hand, electrodes all over me, a gizmo taped to one of my fingers, machines with their lines and lights. That's frightening. No wonder when they come to my house they aren't sure what they'll see or who am I just now.

So, under the circumstances, they did very well the other night.

I surely love them. That hasn't changed. Neither have I, really.