Thomas

If you knew my cousin Thomas, you knew that he loved movies and was quite an aficionado. We always thought he might become a film critic and a fine one at that, so I found it fitting to begin with a quote from the late Roger Ebert which I think applies to Thomas’ life. Ebert wrote,

We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

Thomas tried to contribute joy to the world—and he succeeded. Despite the crippling depression he battled for so many years, he managed to be an engaged and integral part of our close-knit family. Considering the burden he was carrying, this in itself was a feat. He brought us all much joy throughout the years, whether it was a clever quip, a hug (which he always gave in greeting), a kindness towards co-workers, or a heart-felt gift.
He was known as the consummate gift-giver in our family, I think it was a role he enjoyed and found gratifying. He’d honed his skill over many Christmases and birthdays, presenting each of us with carefully chosen, creatively wrapped presents, ones that he would look for months in advance and have ready for the occasion. When my son Silas turned one last month, a balloon appeared on our doorstep. I couldn’t imagine who had brought it, but it was an immediate hit at our house. I later learned that it was from Thomas, who had not only remembered his birthday but had even chosen a zebra print balloon because he knew that babies liked black and white. This thoughtfulness and generosity, this devotion to his family, defined him.
​Thomas tried to contribute joy to the world—and he succeeded. Now when I think of Silas playing with that balloon, his sheer delight in it, I give thanks for Thomas. And when I see in my mind’s eye Silas with outstretched arm, reaching for it, I recall a memory captured in a favorite family photograph. In it, Thomas, a baby in his mother’s arms . . . on the beach in South Carolina, in the waning light . . . reaches for that elusive, mysterious moon . . . wonderstruck . . . awe illuminating his sweet face.
​The last time I saw him was on Easter. He was blowing bubbles in the yard with my children. There was playfulness and levity about him that I now see as a prism onto the past—a glimmer of that baby on the beach held rapt by the pale moon. That is the Thomas I will remember. The one who brought joy to his family and others over the course of his life. The one who, despite his struggles, did know wonder and laughter and joy and love.

-Katherine