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My thoughts are never absent from that of my childhood.

Memories saturate my heart from time to time as I reflect lovingly on the moments of growing up with my siblings.

My brother, Robby, had a smile that grew beyond ear-to-ear. It would grab your soul and his chuckle would seal the deal. We grew up roaming the neighborhood together and conquering the parks for hours of endless fun. We spent time finding places and spaces that would accept three noisy siblings, and often their friends, in endless hours of mini-adventures, be it a trampoline we happened upon, the mean neighbors’ rooftop shed we jumped off of, or the trips to the fire station in order to get a candy or a soda from the firemen.

Everything was fun and spontaneous with Robby. Our adventures included climbing the backyard tree, finding an abandoned house to plunge into, and racing down the alley on foot to the corner store ready to secure our snacks with the coins our mother gave us.

I was often too afraid to go on these adventures but being with Robby would make me brave. He’d loan me his strength and courage. I’d say yes to venturing out beyond my comfort zone because my brother was a “charmer.” He didn’t necessarily assure you safety, but he’d almost always see to it you’d have a good time. You would stretch yourself beyond fear and often enough he’d sooth your desperation with that unmistakable look of, “I told you there would be fun to have.”

While one brother was teaching me to hold breath under water, and how to paddle, kick, and swim, Robby was the one who said, “Come on” enough times that I was finally able to trust one soul in this world long enough to get on a bicycle, peddle for my life, and ride for the first time. He started me off with the front yard, in the cool of the grass. After enough bobbing and weaving, he would convince me to get on the sidewalk. Robby was smart enough not to tell me how much faster I’d be going on the paved sidewalk…down a hill.

That was our little brother—he was tiny and mighty, and his love for fun and testing limits knew no boundaries.

When our baby sister was born, he was protective over her and I can remember how often he’d say, “she’s cute” with a giggle, as if he was unaware of how humans could be so tiny.

At a minuscule age, the world tried to put a ceiling on Robby, limiting his ability to see the world as most of us see it. Although he was legally blind from a young age, I often thought that Rob saw things better than we did through his love for “wanting to know more.”

I saw him as “wild.”

Not the way most would define it—not bad or naughty. Instead, I saw Robby as living, untamed, and fierce. He hungered for freedom in the areas of life he was curious about and eager for.

As we grow and age, the world puts a ceiling on most of us. Unfortunately, Rob’s ceiling lowered and lowered as the world stole more and more of his vision. He had to see through his dreams and his hope for life. He wanted peace, to be loved, and was always longing, in a gentle way, for things to be better.

Even in his most challenging and hurtful of times, I knew Robby to be a happy person who knew a hard life. Life would come against him from every angle and he would just keep trying. He would feel that ceiling lower on him and he would do his best to oppose it. Often, he just needed to know he was loved and accepted, and that those who loved him were there for him. The love he received permitted him to defy that ceiling.

When I was young, I told Rob how often I would dream of being able to fly. How freeing it was. How good it felt. As an adult, I reminded him of how I missed that feeling. Recently, I confided to him how much I wish I could dream those dreams again. He reminded me that I was living them. I was flying in my own way on my own time. I am reminded today of the ceilings I place on myself.

Rob loved his children, Rob and Tori, beyond measure. He’d never imagined as a younger version of himself even being able to have children, or having the wherewithal to raise them. He loved our mother, Nancy, infinitely because she is loving and faithful, and she never gave up on him, even through the hair-pulling days he gave her as he reinvented his version of Evel Knievel. Rob wanted to remain close to his siblings and always tried to remember to say I love you. He thought the world of the people who were genuine and kind to him.

And yet, there were always ceilings. But ceilings for the wild should never exist.

The night I learned my brother died, I dreamed of him all night long.

Mostly the childhood memories, his unmistakable smile, his chuckle, the tiny scout of a boy who grew up tall and thin. In my dreams, I hugged him and laughed with him. We ran about and played and had adventures, once more. The night of dreams ended with my brother’s adult voice saying, “I love ya, sis…see ya later.” And that chuckle.

My thoughts since that night are full of my brother and memories of our friendship, yet I haven’t dreamed of him since.

Sometimes I wonder and ask Rob: Is the ceiling gone? Are you free to explore and find your next adventure? Are you traveling from some wonderful place beyond limitation? Without the ceilings? Do you see the Rockies in my backyard? The people cheering at the concerts? Are the big sisters learning to ride bikes? Watching your children figure out their loves and their lives? Comforting our mother from afar as she longs to hear your voice again?

Can you encourage us from afar to be daring, adventurous, and free?

Can you keep reminding us to remove the ceilings?

In wild memory of Robert Ervin Kitchens
June 1966 – March 2024

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