Even though I was the older (and supposedly wiser) sibling, Jimmy could always get me to do anything. He'd double-dog dare me, give me his best "Uncle Bobby shit-eatin' grin," promise to come along, and then off I'd go, my better judgment and any fears left behind. Years of my "personal scientific experiments" proved to me, he really was the only one to be trusted without reservation. Our adventures were never too dangerous because he always offered to go along, and he wasn't cruel, so whatever he had in store for me usually ended up being a blast once I put my eldest-child phobias and fears aside. So there I was yesterday at Darien Lake, being cajoled by my eldest to get on the Superman roller coaster. Feet planted firmly on solid ground, I stared up at the highest point of the coaster — 200 feet in the air — knowing I'd never get on it of my own accord and the only person who could possibly convince me to strap myself in next to him for the ride was gone from my life forever.
It's the little things like this that trip me on my road through grief. Something so benign as a roller coaster I have no interest in riding, makes me catch my breath and I see another hole in the fabric that's me created by Jimmy's absence.
The Tower of Terror - Disney World 2003
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