This story is adapted from Debra McCoskey-Reisert’s segment on NPR’s “Songs of Remembrance.”
——————————-
I.
One of our last trips together was to Tunica, Mississippi. We’d met to play at the casino because Bobby loved the slot machines. One night, it got late, so we decided to go back to the hotel. Well, we decided to first knock on Mom’s door and take off running. Mom got mad at us for making noise. The angrier she got, the funnier it was. We were making happy mayhem, and then we were lectured by our mother. We were all laughing so hard in the hallway — it was almost like we were little kids again.

This is an important memory for me to treasure, and I’m glad we have it, because one of Bobby’s greatest abilities was to be able to be joyful. Everyone loved him for this quality, no matter where he went or what he did, like at dances he’d attend, organized specifically for people with disabilities. Bobby fit in very well there. It was a place that he could go, have a really good time, be accepted. Once, he was even crowned Prom King. Many of us know the song “Closing Time” by the Semisonics because it’s playing when bars close up. Well, it’s played at the end of those dances too.

… “Closing time. Turn all of the lights on over every boy and every girl.”

But there are some lyrics in “Closing Time” that get to me a little bit, one line in particular:

… “This room won’t be open ’til your brothers or your sisters come.”

And those lyrics make me think of Bobby being in heaven, waiting for his four brothers and little sister. And then at the end:

… “Closing time – every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”

II.
Bobby’s gone now. And now we’ve had to learn what life looks like without him.

We received a call on April 8 of 2020, saying that Bobby had tested positive for the virus. And the next couple of weeks were up-and-down. I called him up and I said, “Hey, Bobby. Guess what day it is?” He said, “your birthday.” I said, “did you get me something?” And he said, “Well, I tried to.”

I thought he’d meant he tried to get something from the gift shop. I was wrong. He’d made a painting for me. And that’s the day they released him from the hospital.

When I finally reached him on Saturday morning, he was not himself anymore. I called the nursing home, and I said, “I want you to take my brother back to the hospital. Something is not right.” But they didn’t send him back.

On Wednesday, a lady from the nursing home called. I thought she was just calling to give me a report, then she told me that Robert had passed that night.

At that time in Indiana, funerals were limited to 10 people. But a large, traditional funeral wouldn’t have been the way to send Bobby off anyway. He was extra special. He would never have wanted to sit through that kind of service.

… “So gather up your jackets. Move it to the exits. I hope you have found a friend. Closing time.”

There was a parade around my mom’s block that began with a fire engine, a Salvation Army truck, a Special Olympics van, tons of family and friends that had smiley-face balloons tied to their cars. Our family stood out front, ringing bells and holding signs that said ‘Be kind for Bobby’ or ‘Honk for Bobby.’ And it was the greatest celebration of his life.

… “I know who I want to take me home. I know who I want to take me home. I know who I want to take me home.”

… “Closing time — time for you to go out to the places you will be from.”

We know the places Bobby was from, our Prom King, our laughter, our light, my brother who I ran down hallways with, making joyful mayhem, as if we were still children.