My brother Bennie is in great contrast to my brother Sid. The friendship between my brother Bennie and me never went downhill. It stayed sweet until the day he died. He was forty-nine.

Bennie was twenty-three years old when I was born.

My first memory of Bennie was when he brought me a puppy. This was Mickey. I was three or so. I was in the backyard, and Bennie pulled up in his truck and handed me a puppy. He may have given Mickey to my brother and sister too, yet, as I saw it, Mickey was mine.

It was truly my brother Bennie’s pleasure to do for others. He liked to give a little happiness, though he did not have that much happiness of his own. The best happiness he had was doing for others, and doing gladly, and without thought of return. My brother Bennie didn’t ask a whole lot from life.

When I was very young, Bennie would bring us wonderful cookies and cakes he had bought. That must have been before additives and preservatives because what he brought was always incredibly delicious.

When I was older, Bennie would drop off flowers for me – I remember gladiolias — and The New York Sunday Times every Sunday. He arose early. I slept late. I would just find his gifts waiting for me. Sometimes he would take a nap on our couch, and he would still be there too.

Like all of us, Bennie was a mix. He was the sweetest man in the world, and yet he was blunt. When he had taken over the Rose Market, he would say straight out to a customer, “Lady, don’t squeeze the tomatoes.” When I worked at the store after school and I had really messed up something, Bennie didn’t mince words. I think he said, “Get out!” And yet his love was so great, it was impossible to take offense.

Bennie married Sally, and it wasn’t a happy marriage. Honestly, I haven’t known many that were. Bennie had a son David, and, of course, he had happiness from David. David was eleven when Bennie died. David went on to become New England Chess Champion. David had Bennie’s sweet heart. David also died of a heart attack at about the same age as Bennie did.

I suppose we never know why two people choose to marry each other. But somehow toward the end, it was so bad that Bennie did not have access to his own money. How happy I was to give him money, and how sad I was that he needed to ask.

The last memory I have of Bennie was when we were having lunch at a corner diner – I can’t remember the name of this familiar diner. For no reason except that I want to remember it, it’s important to me to remember the name, and I can’t, and there’s no one to ask. Oh, the name just came to me. It was the Handy Lunch.

I remember clearly that Bennie had a chicken sandwich. He took off one piece of bread and folded the remaining slice over and ate his sandwich that way.

I was living in California when my brother Bennie died.

I believe I’ve told you how my mother had a rolled-up poster of a beautiful baby in the attic. I’m pretty sure now that the poster was of Baby Jesus because of the star that was over this beautiful baby’s head. My mother kept this poster because it reminded her of Bennie when he was a baby.

My mother was sixteen when she had Bennie.

Somehow, as I remember my brother Bennie, I do vaguely begin to sense what God means when He says life is all a movie and the past doesn’t really exist, and it never did. In telling you about my brother Bennie, it’s like I am telling you about an old movie I saw.

The reel spins, and the reel runs out, and then it’s over, a spectacular movie never to be seen again, only to be told about in a blog.