 |
| In her classroom. Photo by Jennifer Kelleher, one of her students. |
When Tammy was a baby, I played
peek-a-boo with her and got big laughs. In memory, her laughter was
already outsized.
When she was 3 she wanted to be a
ballerina. I gave her my red plastic fireman's hat and told her that
if she wore that she'd be even better: a ballerina clerk. She wore it for days.
Don't ask what it meant. It was just
early days of brotherly torture. But she wasn't defenseless. When she
was 9 or 10, I got on the phone extension while she was talking with
a friend. She responded with one of the most devastating insults one
could deliver in our house: she said I was just like Nixon because I
bugged people on the phone.
I told her she should credit me for her
great sense of humor on the grounds that she had to have one in order
to survive being my little sister. But that was just more teasing.
Even in the last year, as she fought the disease and suffered the
effects of the treatment, she'd reward a phone call with laughs and
without complaints.
Witnessing the outpouring of love and
affection she's received over the last few months reminds me of a
lesson of that great 20th century american philosopher, The Wizard of
Oz. As he told the Tin Man: Your heart is judged not by how much you
love, but by how much you are loved by others. (He also said that
hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.)
Tammy's small frame held a huge heart.
Rest in peace, Tammy.
