I don't own Jan or anything familiar, though I heard Disney was trying to sell the NHL Ducks.
'She loved him more, you know.'
Those words still ring in your ears; like it was only yesterday you said them. It was years ago. Sure you'd been envious of your older brother, but you never meant to sound so resentful. So blatantly jealous of the relationship he had with your mother.
You didn't want to be the one that had to call your mama her favorite son was dead. You didn't mean to be so angry because you knew she wouldn't be that crushed if you were gone, that you wouldn't go to his funeral. Or to pack and leave your family business to escape his memory.
It wasn't just with your mother that Hans ranked number one. Even your precious Ducks loved him more. You were there when they one the gold. You taught Luis how to stop and Dwayne not to show off. But they didn't care, they loved Hans.
When you twelve years old, you had a crush on Ingrid Hallbjörn, the village beauty. She liked him. Your brother married her six years later. Your life long dream was to move to America. Hans was older, he got there first.
You were always in his shadow. You hate him, you hate yourself. You hate the actuality you're a grown man and still can't get past the fact he got better toys then you on Christmas. Or that you always go picked after him for teams in school.
He's dead and you've moved to a quiet little retirement village in Florida and still his legacy follows you. It's in the coffee table he carved from a stump, that all you did was stain it. It's in his recipes that fill the back section of the family cook book. All that's on your page is hasenpfeffer and eggs. Truth be told, you're the only person that ever ate it.
His memory haunts you, you're stalked by it. His photo sits on the mantle mocking you from behind the smooth clear glass of the picture frame. Even in death he sits at your shoulder, watching, screaming, reminding you he'll always be there. You'll never be free.
As you sit there in your recliner, watching Charlie score for the New Jersey Devils on TV, you feel your heart thump as the puck flies into the net. Then it stops, your heart just stops. You're alone or are you?
Suddenly you see him, he's more then an image frozen in a picture. He reached out his hand with a grin. He leads you, and you follow. You mother is waiting for you smiling like she'd never smiled before. She loves you, you know it. She'd been waiting years to see you again.
You look down days later and see your Ducks and your dear Gordon Bombay. Gordon leans over and your vision zooms in close. You see yourself, in the cedar box, motionless and still, wearing your Duck's jersey. He touches your hand as a tear rolls down his face. He loves you, the team loves you.
And as you see your headstone, the words 'Beloved mentor and treasured friend' etched into the smooth granite, all of a sudden, you love you.
"Jan!" Your mother calls and you go to her and you're happy, no longer in the shadow, you're whole.
'She loved him more, you know.'
Those words still ring in your ears; like it was only yesterday you said them. It was years ago. Sure you'd been envious of your older brother, but you never meant to sound so resentful. So blatantly jealous of the relationship he had with your mother.
You didn't want to be the one that had to call your mama her favorite son was dead. You didn't mean to be so angry because you knew she wouldn't be that crushed if you were gone, that you wouldn't go to his funeral. Or to pack and leave your family business to escape his memory.
It wasn't just with your mother that Hans ranked number one. Even your precious Ducks loved him more. You were there when they one the gold. You taught Luis how to stop and Dwayne not to show off. But they didn't care, they loved Hans.
When you twelve years old, you had a crush on Ingrid Hallbjörn, the village beauty. She liked him. Your brother married her six years later. Your life long dream was to move to America. Hans was older, he got there first.
You were always in his shadow. You hate him, you hate yourself. You hate the actuality you're a grown man and still can't get past the fact he got better toys then you on Christmas. Or that you always go picked after him for teams in school.
He's dead and you've moved to a quiet little retirement village in Florida and still his legacy follows you. It's in the coffee table he carved from a stump, that all you did was stain it. It's in his recipes that fill the back section of the family cook book. All that's on your page is hasenpfeffer and eggs. Truth be told, you're the only person that ever ate it.
His memory haunts you, you're stalked by it. His photo sits on the mantle mocking you from behind the smooth clear glass of the picture frame. Even in death he sits at your shoulder, watching, screaming, reminding you he'll always be there. You'll never be free.
As you sit there in your recliner, watching Charlie score for the New Jersey Devils on TV, you feel your heart thump as the puck flies into the net. Then it stops, your heart just stops. You're alone or are you?
Suddenly you see him, he's more then an image frozen in a picture. He reached out his hand with a grin. He leads you, and you follow. You mother is waiting for you smiling like she'd never smiled before. She loves you, you know it. She'd been waiting years to see you again.
You look down days later and see your Ducks and your dear Gordon Bombay. Gordon leans over and your vision zooms in close. You see yourself, in the cedar box, motionless and still, wearing your Duck's jersey. He touches your hand as a tear rolls down his face. He loves you, the team loves you.
And as you see your headstone, the words 'Beloved mentor and treasured friend' etched into the smooth granite, all of a sudden, you love you.
"Jan!" Your mother calls and you go to her and you're happy, no longer in the shadow, you're whole.