Once Removed — By Ellen Birkett Morris
artwork by Adam Straus
Begat:
At first, Fred was just a name on a family tree. Fred, son of Bernard, discovered by my sister on a message board. Fred, first cousin once removed.
Pilgrimage:
Fred traced the family history back centuries on the French Canadian side,
back to the famine on the Irish side. So many names, so many branches.
We drove through Canada in search of ghosts. Found the foundation
of the family home where the angry grandfather I never met
was forced to say Vespers in French after dinner.
We walked through graveyards seeking out Birketts.
Visited an elderly cousin, now blind, who knew the photos in the album
so well that she took us through them by memory. At night
we sat around the table and sang songs from the fifties.
How I Knew He was a Birkett:
The shape of his head
The black hair
The twinkle in the eye before he said something scandalous
His allegiance to labor
His curiosity
His drive to tell stories
His irreverence for authority
Echoes:
So like my father, his need to know, disdain for manners, ability to find someone’s weak spot and poke it, and his affection for me.
Carried in the Genes:
Bookended by prostate cancer. My father’s landed him in the hospital, cutting short my visit with Fred, son of Bernard. My father’s death the following spring. The phone call from Fred about his cancer diagnosis. Our decision to meet again.
Real Life:
We met in Quebec City, strolled the cobbled streets, lingered over lunches of ham and brie, cups of rich coffee. We headed for the coast, unspooling our lives as we went, finding the web of things we share by virtue of blood—wanderlust, irreverence, the pull to play the odds. We stopped at a blueberry stand. Bought a pint of small, deep blueberries and ate them in the car as we passed green fields, our hands purpling. “It will be hard to return to real life,” I said.
“This is real life,” Fred said.
The Calls:
We used the pandemic as an excuse to meet over video calls, punctuated by profanity as Fred struggled with technology. It was then I learned the cancer spread. We talked, as one does, about everyday things.
The second call was news of his choice to engage in end of life care. We talked about God or the absence of God, referenced our adventures, said goodbye.
The Question:
How do I say I see me in you, we are by dint of blood and custom much the same, kinfolk, once removed, but so close to my heart? How do I call it goodbye knowing that you echo in my blood?
Ellen Birkett Morris is the author of Beware the Tall Grass: A Novel, selected by Lan Samantha Chang for the Donald L. Jordan Award for Literary Excellence. She is also the author of Lost Girls: Short Stories, winner of the Pencraft Award, and of Abide, and Surrender, poetry chapbooks. Her essays have appeared in The Keepthings, Newsweek, Next Avenue, AARP’s The Ethel, Oh Reader magazine, and on National Public Radio. Find her at ellenbirkettmorris.com. Morris resides in Louisville, Kentucky.