This morning there was an accident right in front of me on the freeway. It was surreal.
I'm driving in the HOV lane, half asleep, really, trying to wake my mind up with my Greek lesson. Obviously I'm awake enough to drive, but not really to think about anything else, too. Suddenly I hear the terrible sound of two heavy steel objects slamming into one another; micro-seconds later, an old white Monte Carlo swerves into the lane in front of me. I slam on my brakes, stopping about three car lengths behind the white car as it spins to a stop.
I sit for a second, gathering my wits; I've stopped with plenty of space in front of me, but that doesn't prevent someone more sleepy than I from slamming into my rear. I tap the emergency flasher button, hoping to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my tiny, asphalt-colored Prius.
I take stock of the scene; the giant yellow Hummer has spun in a complete circle and come to a stop perpendicular to the dividing line of two of the three regular lanes on the highway. The Monte Carlo has spun all the way around and landed, much the worse for wear, as if it wishes to continue its journey in the HOV lane with me.
I sit for a moment longer, not thinking very quickly at 6:30 in the morning; suddenly the white car door opens and a young man on unsteady legs climbs out and totters toward my car. I roll down my window as he cries, "Am I bleeding?! Is it bad?!" He is bleeding, but it's not bad -- a little blood from a superficial head wound likely cause by the shattered glass spraying on his face on impact. "Yes, you're bleeding, but it's not bad. Are you okay?" I ask. In response, he sinks to the pavement next to my car and props himself up against the stone divider separating us from oncoming traffic.
"Sir?"
"My life sucks! Oh my god, my life sucks!"
He must be relatively okay if he is thinking of how much his life sucks. The Hummer, on the other hand, is still ominously quiet.
"Hey. Listen. I'm gonna call 911, okay? I'm not getting out of my car because it's dangerous. You should go back and sit in your car, too; secondary accidents are really common and you will be safer if someone hits you inside your car rather than out here on the pavement. Ok?"
"Ok, yeah. Good idea. Thank you so much. Oh, my god!" He resumes freaking out.
"Listen to me. I don't see any serious injuries, but if you do have any, you need to relax. Understand? You need to slow your heart rate so if you have any injuries you don't pump all your blood to them. Ok? Go sit in your car and take some deep breaths and try to calm down. Understand?"
"Yeah, ok." He totters off towards his car.
I look towards the Hummer; still no movement. Are they badly hurt? Are they just being smart and staying in their steel-framed vehicle on the highway instead of sitting down in the road? Are they...ok, forget that question. I don't know any real first-aid, and I shouldn't risk my own life trying to find out about theirs. Best thing to do? Call 911.
After a short, quick phone call to summon an ambulance, I sit, flashers blinking away, and stare at the Hummer. Do I go check? I look at the traffic; it's moving slowly in streams flowing on either sides of the sideways Hummer. Fairly orderly and respectful, which is not usual for Phoenix rush hour. Still...
An old man in an SUV takes the decision out of my hands as he hops out of his car, shoots me a look I interpret as irritation, and hobbles over to the Hummer. He knocks on the passenger side window, and to my relief, the window comes down. At least one person is alive and aware in the Hummer.
An ADOT truck pulls up behind me while I'm watching the old man gesture at the white car. He startles me when he appears at my window to ask if I'm okay. "I'm fine. I wasn't in the accident, I just stayed to be an emergency signal. Didn't really know what else to do." "I'll take it from here," he tells me. He walks in front of the lane to my right and stops the crawling trickle of cars to let me pull out. What else is there to do but obey the authority figure in his official orange vest? I leave.
Afterward I realize I should have stayed. I was a witness. Nobody else who saw the collision stayed to help. It will be the white car's word against the Hummer's, and from what I know about the justice system, money talks. The Hummer caused the accident trying to whip into the HOV lane from two lanes away. But a late-model luxury SUV has more clout in court than a 1972 Monte Carlo. I should have stayed.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Paranoia
Even though I know that what happened to you was an accident, I'm paranoid. Every minor thing I feel has me diagnosing myself with cancer or some other deadly disease.
Right now I have a transient pain in my upper abdomen and I need to see a doctor about it. I hate going to the doctor because they just look at me and assume it's because I'm fat and never do a really thorough job of figuring out the problem. I had nineteen gall stones and my gallbladder was four times the size it should have been by the time they took it out.
I was referred to a cardiologist who looked at my chart and said, "You're 29. Why are you here??" "Because I'm fat." He rolled his eyes. "Go home. Your heart is in excellent condition." I knew that. But that didn't stop the doctor from sending me to the heart hospital when I was having a textbook gallbladder attack.
I hate the prejudice, and I don't want to go spend my own money (my insurance is more limited now) on their stupid, prejudiced guesswork. They will run a barrage of unnecessary tests and never find the problem because they will be treating my fatness instead of my problem.
But...I gotta go anyway. What if it's something serious? Our family can't lose another person so soon. We just can't do it. And besides, L-- just had cancer removed. I can't get sick, too. I don't want to go, but I have to. For my family.
Why'd you have to go and die for? What were you thinking, doing that? Idiot. I miss you.
Right now I have a transient pain in my upper abdomen and I need to see a doctor about it. I hate going to the doctor because they just look at me and assume it's because I'm fat and never do a really thorough job of figuring out the problem. I had nineteen gall stones and my gallbladder was four times the size it should have been by the time they took it out.
I was referred to a cardiologist who looked at my chart and said, "You're 29. Why are you here??" "Because I'm fat." He rolled his eyes. "Go home. Your heart is in excellent condition." I knew that. But that didn't stop the doctor from sending me to the heart hospital when I was having a textbook gallbladder attack.
I hate the prejudice, and I don't want to go spend my own money (my insurance is more limited now) on their stupid, prejudiced guesswork. They will run a barrage of unnecessary tests and never find the problem because they will be treating my fatness instead of my problem.
But...I gotta go anyway. What if it's something serious? Our family can't lose another person so soon. We just can't do it. And besides, L-- just had cancer removed. I can't get sick, too. I don't want to go, but I have to. For my family.
Why'd you have to go and die for? What were you thinking, doing that? Idiot. I miss you.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Even though I don't celebrate Christmas,
I am thinking about you more than usual today. I know everyone else is, too. You would be at L---'s, possibly by force, with Mom and everyone else, probably putting a call in to your grandma, and definitely to your dad and M---. You might even call me and pretend not to want to wish me a Merry Christmas, or maybe you'd say something like, "I know you don't celebrate this pagan holiday, but I do, so Merry Christmas anyway, because I love you and I'm thinking about you." You totally would -- you said almost exactly that last year.
I thought because I don't celebrate that I'd escape the typical 'first holiday season after' sadness. Turns out there are memories no matter what. Turns out I miss you more that normal today. Go figure.
I thought because I don't celebrate that I'd escape the typical 'first holiday season after' sadness. Turns out there are memories no matter what. Turns out I miss you more that normal today. Go figure.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
You Would Be So Disappointed
I can't really explain what I mean, other than: it's the same old garbage that made you so sad all the time. The same old fight, the same old sides, the same stupid reasons. You would be furious at how the most innocent, and most important, person is stuck in the middle. I don't know what to do that's fair, that doesn't hurt anyone or buy into the stupid games. I don't think there is any good solution. It's like the past five months didn't happen and we are back to the most ridiculous square one in history.
All I can think is, it's just stuff. It can't bring you back, and you never cared about any of it, anyway. Why should people be so selfish and manipulative for the sake of material things? Things which are worth almost nothing anyway, things which were not even really wanted until they became of value on the emotional battlefield? I don't understand. I wish you were here so you could tell me what you would do. Then again, if you were here, this would not be happening in the first place. Sigh...
I miss you.
All I can think is, it's just stuff. It can't bring you back, and you never cared about any of it, anyway. Why should people be so selfish and manipulative for the sake of material things? Things which are worth almost nothing anyway, things which were not even really wanted until they became of value on the emotional battlefield? I don't understand. I wish you were here so you could tell me what you would do. Then again, if you were here, this would not be happening in the first place. Sigh...
I miss you.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Heartbeat
It's hard to be sad when you have a new puppy, but I manage. I'm packing up my apartment to move on Wednesday, and that involves dealing with your stuff, and with you.
I've had you tucked safely in a drawer because there's no good place to put three temporary plastic urns while I wait for circumstances to fall into place so that those urns may be divested of their contents and you be laid to rest in the corners of the planet you would most want to rest in. Now that I'm moving, I have to take you out of that drawer and find you a new safe place during transit, and another one at the new destination (because the drawer won't work now that my furniture is being shared with a roommate).
It might seem wrong that I've had you in a dark drawer. I feel guilty for it sometimes. But it would be far worse if something were to happen to upset those temporary urns. Life is all hustle and bustle, and I have dogs, and visitors, and not much space, and it would be too easy for some accident to happen. I think I would feel far worse about that. So you are in a drawer with some items I think you would want to sit with while you wait, and you are waiting.
As I sort and pack the remains of my apartment, working quietly around what remains of my brother, my puppy whines when I move too far away. She's anxious to be as close to me as possible, to listen to my heartbeat, to be reassured of my presence.
I know the feeling, Daisy May. I know the feeling.
I've had you tucked safely in a drawer because there's no good place to put three temporary plastic urns while I wait for circumstances to fall into place so that those urns may be divested of their contents and you be laid to rest in the corners of the planet you would most want to rest in. Now that I'm moving, I have to take you out of that drawer and find you a new safe place during transit, and another one at the new destination (because the drawer won't work now that my furniture is being shared with a roommate).
It might seem wrong that I've had you in a dark drawer. I feel guilty for it sometimes. But it would be far worse if something were to happen to upset those temporary urns. Life is all hustle and bustle, and I have dogs, and visitors, and not much space, and it would be too easy for some accident to happen. I think I would feel far worse about that. So you are in a drawer with some items I think you would want to sit with while you wait, and you are waiting.
As I sort and pack the remains of my apartment, working quietly around what remains of my brother, my puppy whines when I move too far away. She's anxious to be as close to me as possible, to listen to my heartbeat, to be reassured of my presence.
I know the feeling, Daisy May. I know the feeling.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Saturday, December 3, 2011
And Miles To Go Before I Sleep...
Today I feel so very tired. So tired that for a fleeting moment I was tempted again, like I have not been in many years, by that long, dreamless sleep which used to seem like a solution to this bone-weary tiredness. Not for long, and nothing that should raise any alarm bells, but for a disquieting moment I wondered about laying down next to you in that dreamless slumber that shields you from every callous hardship of the day. I wondered if your long rest will feel restful when you finally wake to contemplate it.
Of course it was only a micro-moment. A random thought flitting unbidden across my meandering mental landscape, filling an empty synapse for a second as the rest of my grey matter busied itself with a herculean list of items to be checked off before the move. I purged it as soon as I felt it land, banished it to the dark recesses where it belongs (until I find some way to be rid of it completely).
I miss you acutely right now.
I was in Best Buy talking to the sales boy (he was at least twenty so I suppose he is a man, but to me he's a boy) about Linux vs Mac vs PC and I said at one point, "My brother knows more about Linux than I do," and he of course asked me which version you use. And I realized the verb tenses were wrong and that I had forgotten that your computer is in a box in my closet. So I said something clumsy, like, "Well he used to run Ubuntu, I think," to which, of course, he responded, "He doesn't anymore?" And I said, "No." And then there was an awkward pause, because I wasn't going to tell a total stranger in Best Buy that my brother died suddenly a few months ago but I forgot for a minute and brought him up in conversation because I still haven't fully trained my reflexes to remember his absence. So I opted for social awkwardness instead, even though I am, as a rule, not given to social awkwardness.
I love you. I'm sorry I never had time for you. I miss you.
Of course it was only a micro-moment. A random thought flitting unbidden across my meandering mental landscape, filling an empty synapse for a second as the rest of my grey matter busied itself with a herculean list of items to be checked off before the move. I purged it as soon as I felt it land, banished it to the dark recesses where it belongs (until I find some way to be rid of it completely).
I miss you acutely right now.
I was in Best Buy talking to the sales boy (he was at least twenty so I suppose he is a man, but to me he's a boy) about Linux vs Mac vs PC and I said at one point, "My brother knows more about Linux than I do," and he of course asked me which version you use. And I realized the verb tenses were wrong and that I had forgotten that your computer is in a box in my closet. So I said something clumsy, like, "Well he used to run Ubuntu, I think," to which, of course, he responded, "He doesn't anymore?" And I said, "No." And then there was an awkward pause, because I wasn't going to tell a total stranger in Best Buy that my brother died suddenly a few months ago but I forgot for a minute and brought him up in conversation because I still haven't fully trained my reflexes to remember his absence. So I opted for social awkwardness instead, even though I am, as a rule, not given to social awkwardness.
I love you. I'm sorry I never had time for you. I miss you.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Geeks
I've decided to really learn Linux. According to the people on XDA, it's pretty analogous to what happens on an Android device, and if I learn the Linux language, I will clearly understand what's under my rooted Android tablet's hood (or my iPhone, should I decide to play).
This makes me miss you intensely. You tried so hard to get me to play around with Linux. I let you install it on my computer and I played for like, a minute, and then I went back to what's comfortable. You thought my Mac proclivity was lame. I thought you were a geek. We both are. Were. I still am. You can't be anymore.
It's little stupid stuff like this that punches me in the gut.
This makes me miss you intensely. You tried so hard to get me to play around with Linux. I let you install it on my computer and I played for like, a minute, and then I went back to what's comfortable. You thought my Mac proclivity was lame. I thought you were a geek. We both are. Were. I still am. You can't be anymore.
It's little stupid stuff like this that punches me in the gut.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Dignity, Value, Pride, Respect
These are words I'm grappling with today.
I have a dresser and a bed that I no longer need. I wish to donate them to a person who needs them. I placed an ad on craigslist offering them free to a person in need, and within fifteen minutes I had 30 responses. I started to think that maybe some of the people were just trolling craigslist for free stuff to resell for profit, so I emailed all of the responders asking politely for them to confirm that they were, in fact, in need, and not just looking for profit. I phrased the question respectfully (I thought) and clarified that I did not intend to offend, embarrass, or pry, I just wanted to know that my furniture was going to someone in actual need.
Several people responded with detailed stories about why they truly needed the items, a few admitted that they really weren't in dire need but just liked the look of the dresser (it's a rather good piece of furniture), and several simply did not respond to my email. All of those emails (or lack thereof) were expected.
What I did not expect were angry, insulting, obscenity-laced responses from two different men. One threatened to have my craigslist account flagged for misrepresentation, to which I responded that I had not misrepresented anything as the items are still free (though they will obviously not be going to him). The other actually responded to my request with his story and only sent me the hate-filled response when I emailed everyone to let them know the dresser was no longer available; he called me retarded, an idiot, and told me if he were me he would shoot himself, along with other choice statements that I don't care to repeat.
So here is where the grappling comes in: The responses were disrespectful. I believe the disrespect was fueled by wounded pride. I think the gross lack of respect indicates a lack of value for other people. But dignity is where I keep sticking.
Dignity can be intrinsic or assigned; one can carry oneself with dignity (intrinsic), one can be treated with dignity (assigned). One can be deserving of dignity (intrinsic), one can act in a dignified manner (assigned). Intrinsic dignity is supported by value and garners respect, and is almost the opposite of pride.
But what about assigned dignity? That's where I keep getting stuck. Was it wrong of me to ask for people to expose their need in order to have it met? I believe humility is important, I believe pride comes before a fall. But I also believe it is wrong to take away a person's dignity to inflate your own self-satisfaction. "When making gifts of mercy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing." I think that is in part to emphasize our own need for humility even when doing a good work, but also because drawing attention to good you do for others makes a spectacle of them, potentially robbing them of dignity.
So was I robbing those men of their dignity in asking for an explanation? Would it have been better to simply state clearly in the ad that I did not want to give it to a reseller and rely on the honor system? Am I any better off now that several people exposed their vulnerability to me and I could choose only two, not really knowing whether their stories are actually true, effectively relying on the honor system after all? What was I really trying to accomplish? Was I truly trying to find the person who needed the most help, or was I just slyly letting my left hand know what my right was doing?
I imagine calling you to ask your opinion:
You side with those men in spirit. Of course you think they were wrong for being so hateful, but you point out that I attached strings to my offer, thus forcing them to give up some of their dignity in exchange for meeting a need.
I argue that it was less harm than allowing this opportunity -- quality furniture for free -- to be taken from someone in need by someone in greed. You counter that I can't fix the world's problems and sometimes I'm blind to the way my attempts are received.
I counter that dignity is not something that can be taken away, it is something you give up. You argue that it's easy for someone with an extra bed to feel like dignity is just another commodity.
I get indignant; it's not my fault that people are poor, and it's not like I am being self-serving, here. I just want to ensure that this one time, where I have control, things turn out in the fairest way I can make them. You tell me the problem is that I want to be in control, and I'm dressing it up with good intentions.
I say the problem with the world is that everyone is so entitled, that my resources are my own and I have the right to do what I want with them, but they don't have the right to be abusive toward me because I don't choose to enrich them with my things. You ask me whether regarding the furniture as not good enough for my own bedroom but good enough to make someone grovel for it says anything about my ego.
I tell you you're being mean and I hang up on you. I spend an hour ranting on the phone to the friend who will just tell me that I'm right without question. I listen to her agree with me and all I hear is your voice, and I realize I really prefer it when people make me examine myself. I decide you had some valid points, resolve to be more sensitive in the future, but I never call you back to tell you so; I don't want you to know how much a part of my conscience you are.
That's the paradox; you always kept me grounded, but it's you that's making me feel like I'm floating away.
I have a dresser and a bed that I no longer need. I wish to donate them to a person who needs them. I placed an ad on craigslist offering them free to a person in need, and within fifteen minutes I had 30 responses. I started to think that maybe some of the people were just trolling craigslist for free stuff to resell for profit, so I emailed all of the responders asking politely for them to confirm that they were, in fact, in need, and not just looking for profit. I phrased the question respectfully (I thought) and clarified that I did not intend to offend, embarrass, or pry, I just wanted to know that my furniture was going to someone in actual need.
Several people responded with detailed stories about why they truly needed the items, a few admitted that they really weren't in dire need but just liked the look of the dresser (it's a rather good piece of furniture), and several simply did not respond to my email. All of those emails (or lack thereof) were expected.
What I did not expect were angry, insulting, obscenity-laced responses from two different men. One threatened to have my craigslist account flagged for misrepresentation, to which I responded that I had not misrepresented anything as the items are still free (though they will obviously not be going to him). The other actually responded to my request with his story and only sent me the hate-filled response when I emailed everyone to let them know the dresser was no longer available; he called me retarded, an idiot, and told me if he were me he would shoot himself, along with other choice statements that I don't care to repeat.
So here is where the grappling comes in: The responses were disrespectful. I believe the disrespect was fueled by wounded pride. I think the gross lack of respect indicates a lack of value for other people. But dignity is where I keep sticking.
Dignity can be intrinsic or assigned; one can carry oneself with dignity (intrinsic), one can be treated with dignity (assigned). One can be deserving of dignity (intrinsic), one can act in a dignified manner (assigned). Intrinsic dignity is supported by value and garners respect, and is almost the opposite of pride.
But what about assigned dignity? That's where I keep getting stuck. Was it wrong of me to ask for people to expose their need in order to have it met? I believe humility is important, I believe pride comes before a fall. But I also believe it is wrong to take away a person's dignity to inflate your own self-satisfaction. "When making gifts of mercy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing." I think that is in part to emphasize our own need for humility even when doing a good work, but also because drawing attention to good you do for others makes a spectacle of them, potentially robbing them of dignity.
So was I robbing those men of their dignity in asking for an explanation? Would it have been better to simply state clearly in the ad that I did not want to give it to a reseller and rely on the honor system? Am I any better off now that several people exposed their vulnerability to me and I could choose only two, not really knowing whether their stories are actually true, effectively relying on the honor system after all? What was I really trying to accomplish? Was I truly trying to find the person who needed the most help, or was I just slyly letting my left hand know what my right was doing?
I imagine calling you to ask your opinion:
You side with those men in spirit. Of course you think they were wrong for being so hateful, but you point out that I attached strings to my offer, thus forcing them to give up some of their dignity in exchange for meeting a need.
I argue that it was less harm than allowing this opportunity -- quality furniture for free -- to be taken from someone in need by someone in greed. You counter that I can't fix the world's problems and sometimes I'm blind to the way my attempts are received.
I counter that dignity is not something that can be taken away, it is something you give up. You argue that it's easy for someone with an extra bed to feel like dignity is just another commodity.
I get indignant; it's not my fault that people are poor, and it's not like I am being self-serving, here. I just want to ensure that this one time, where I have control, things turn out in the fairest way I can make them. You tell me the problem is that I want to be in control, and I'm dressing it up with good intentions.
I say the problem with the world is that everyone is so entitled, that my resources are my own and I have the right to do what I want with them, but they don't have the right to be abusive toward me because I don't choose to enrich them with my things. You ask me whether regarding the furniture as not good enough for my own bedroom but good enough to make someone grovel for it says anything about my ego.
I tell you you're being mean and I hang up on you. I spend an hour ranting on the phone to the friend who will just tell me that I'm right without question. I listen to her agree with me and all I hear is your voice, and I realize I really prefer it when people make me examine myself. I decide you had some valid points, resolve to be more sensitive in the future, but I never call you back to tell you so; I don't want you to know how much a part of my conscience you are.
That's the paradox; you always kept me grounded, but it's you that's making me feel like I'm floating away.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Thai Food
Today the thing that bothers me is that I don't know if you liked Thai food. Not that you're gone, that I can never talk to you, that your son will grow up without you, that you will have no more sons. Not that you were too young to die, that I am too young to have a dead brother. Not that your things are sitting here longing for you, your lifeless computer monitor neglected on the desk next to mine. I mean of course those things, too -- always. But not in any special measure today. Today I am sad because I don't know whether you liked Thai food, and I will never get to ask you.
Monday, November 14, 2011
ASL Songs
You didn't know ASL but you would not need to know any sign language to appreciate these videos. "Handlebars" is an awesome song, and the video is really awesome (M-- and I are making a storyboard from stills of the video to hang as art in our office), but the ASL interpretation is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. "Gravity" is not really my favorite song, although I do like it, but the ASL takes it to a place John Mayer only wishes he could go. Anyway, these made me think of you. I know you would have loved both. I'm still working on "I Grieve" in ASL for you. I'll get there. <3
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Moving
Mom is moving from that awful apartment she's been in for over a decade. I was looking at the baby shower pictures with you and S--- and little not-born M---, and I realized they were taken in that apartment. That's a whole lifetime that she has lived there! I just found a baby picture of C-- with me holding him on her horrid salmon-colored faux-leather sofa. So many memories...I can't remember if she lived there already when I lost my baby, but I think so; she would be 13 years old this January.
We have to go over there this weekend and clean up and pack it up (as if we have any hope of finishing that monumental task in one weekend), and I'm afraid of all of the memories that are gonna come with that task. Mine, yeah, but also, so much of you. It's going to be hard to erase that chapter of my life, no matter how badly it needs erasing. The crime and corruption and danger there outweigh any value that nostalgia might bring; still, it will be a hard weekend. I'm already tearing up to think of it.
In about three weeks, I'm moving from my apartment, too. There isn't much nostalgia to be had here; you never saw the place, and the only connection it has to you is that I was standing in my bedroom here, leaning up against my dresser, in a hurry but answering my phone anyway in case it were some sort of life-altering emergency on the other line, when L--- told me you were dead. Not much nostalgia in that, but it is a memory, anyway. That, and the boxes of stuff that came from your apartment are still stacked next to my computer desk; what with everyone being in a state of flux, I have a feeling it's all coming to my new place. Hopefully I get the three-bedroom with M--: concrete floors, a big office, a window to my car in the parking lot, plenty of closet space, and the only unit with central air/heating in a utilities-included complex. It's not five stars, but for our price-range and specifications, it's pretty good. I think your stuff will end up hanging out in the office for a while.
I wish you were here for this. We all wanted Mom to get out of that place for so long, it's just wrong that you won't be here to argue and fuss and fight about getting it all done. Moving has always been a family affair, but ours is a man down.
We have to go over there this weekend and clean up and pack it up (as if we have any hope of finishing that monumental task in one weekend), and I'm afraid of all of the memories that are gonna come with that task. Mine, yeah, but also, so much of you. It's going to be hard to erase that chapter of my life, no matter how badly it needs erasing. The crime and corruption and danger there outweigh any value that nostalgia might bring; still, it will be a hard weekend. I'm already tearing up to think of it.
In about three weeks, I'm moving from my apartment, too. There isn't much nostalgia to be had here; you never saw the place, and the only connection it has to you is that I was standing in my bedroom here, leaning up against my dresser, in a hurry but answering my phone anyway in case it were some sort of life-altering emergency on the other line, when L--- told me you were dead. Not much nostalgia in that, but it is a memory, anyway. That, and the boxes of stuff that came from your apartment are still stacked next to my computer desk; what with everyone being in a state of flux, I have a feeling it's all coming to my new place. Hopefully I get the three-bedroom with M--: concrete floors, a big office, a window to my car in the parking lot, plenty of closet space, and the only unit with central air/heating in a utilities-included complex. It's not five stars, but for our price-range and specifications, it's pretty good. I think your stuff will end up hanging out in the office for a while.
I wish you were here for this. We all wanted Mom to get out of that place for so long, it's just wrong that you won't be here to argue and fuss and fight about getting it all done. Moving has always been a family affair, but ours is a man down.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
The Right Way
Grief looks different for everyone. I'm good at pretending like I don't feel it at all. Maybe I seem callous to those with formed opinions on how a sister ought to grieve her newly-dead brother, I don't know. What I do know is this: nobody counts my breaths like I do, weighing them against your silence. Nobody can reach inside my heart and pull out that stone that sits in there, weighing me down. My lips smile and my voice laughs and sometimes I sing even when nobody is watching, because I need convincing the most. There is no right way to be sad, and this is the way I know. I miss you, little brother.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
My Answers for I---
I know we have different belief systems, but I also know my brother would want me to at least try to comfort you. These are the things that comfort me; hopefully something in here can be of some comfort to you.
1. Where are you?
1b. Are you where dad is, even if you never met him?
2. In what 'form' do you exist now? I don't even want to think that you don't exist in any form anymore.
3. Do you still have feelings and memories of your life? Or do we forget everything after we're gone?
4. Can you see me? Can you hear me when I'm talking to your photograph?
1-4. I believe that he is sleeping in God's memory, that he is at total peace and unaware of our pain and sadness, nor feeling any of his own. Ecclesiastes 3:19, 20 and 9:5-10 mean to me that he is not in any pain or aware of what is happening now, but John 5:28, 29 and Revelation 21:3,4 mean to me that, soon, I will see him again, and he will be happy, and all of this pain will be behind us. I believe that, because he is asleep (unconscious), he has no memories of anything right now, but when he wakes up from "the memorial tomb" he will be who he is, with all of his memories of his loved ones intact. Even though I don't think he can hear me, I talk to his picture and write to him on my blog because it helps me to feel like I am directing that love at him, and I believe I will see him again and when I do I will tell him how I missed him and how I talked to him all the time like he was never gone.
5. How long until I see you again?
I don't know how long in hours or days, but I know that to God one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years is as one day, and it is because he is eternal and not bound by the limits of time. I believe that eventually we will all be freed from a temporary existence, and then even a thousand years will be to us as simple as a day, and the memory of the time we spend now missing him will be so small and insignificant that we may recall it only as a joke, like remembering being five and feeling like waiting thirty minutes for dinner was an unbearable torture. It seems like forever now, but someday not too far out, it will happen, and then the memory of this anxious waiting will fade. I keep looking ahead to that.
6. Why did you have to go? If everything happens for a reason, what's the reason for this nightmare? I don't think any reason will ever be good enough for taking away your life.
Ecclesiastes 9:11 means to me that some things are senseless, sometimes there is no reason or connection to the bigger plan, and we are all subject to unforeseen occurrences, such as my brother's death. I think the belief that all things happen for a reason come from a desire not to feel like it's all pointless, and that's why it is important to me that God has the power to undo any of those unforeseen occurrence, including a shocking and tragic departure like my brother's. I agree that no reason will ever be good enough, so it is comforting to me to think that it was not part of God's plan to take my brother away from me so painfully, it is just part of being human that he succumbed to death, and God's plan is to bring him back to me. (John 5:28 and Revelation 21:4)
7. Does S. know you're dead? Does she care? Will she get to see you earlier than me? Am I crazy to feel jealous of her being older than me? Then again you never know..You weren't supposed to die so young either.
Yes, S. knows. I don't know if she cares, but I can't imagine she would not care; they cared about each other once. But she was his past, and you were his present, and I think his very first thought upon waking will be, "Where is my I--?!?!?!" I think because of the verse I talked about above, it's pointless to think about age and death, because obviously the two are often not related, and anything can happen. Furthermore, as I said, you are the one he will be looking for when he is able to, not her.
8. Did you really relapse once or was it a habit?
8b. If once why that specific day? It wasn't any different than the others. Why did you choose to go back to that when in 2 days you were supposed to go stay with your gran for a while?
This question drives me crazy, too. We can't know, and it sucks. Will knowing make it any easier to take? I don't know; knowing his cause of death didn't make it any easier, so I don't know that knowing his frame of mind would, either. I think in the end, when it's all done and we finally get reunited, we will all forget to ask about this. For now, I hope you don't let it make you too crazy.
9. Did you realise what's about to happen when it happened? What were your last thoughts? If you knew this is the end, did it cross your mind that you're about to die while I'm waiting for your reply? My god, honey, I hope you didn't realize a thing.
This question (did he know what was happening?) makes me crazy, too. I like to think he had no chance to realize, that it was so quick that he had no idea. I think about the moments before falling asleep; my exact last thought is never really clear to me, just the general theme on my mind. So his last thoughts were about you, about his feelings for you (based on what we know from the investigation). I don't believe he is dreaming, but I think if he were, it would be a sweet one of you.
10. Do you miss me like I miss you?
I don't think there should be any doubt in your mind that he would miss you as much as you miss him. As I said, I don't believe he is conscious of what is happening, which is comforting to me, but I do think his very first thought upon returning to life will be of you.
In the days after his death, I read When Someone You Love Dies from beginning to end several times; it helped a lot. We all have our own understandings of things and I am in no way trying to intrude upon yours, I just derived a lot of comfort from this and I wanted to share it with you if you were interested. Whatever else, just know I am here for you if you need anything. <3
1. Where are you?
1b. Are you where dad is, even if you never met him?
2. In what 'form' do you exist now? I don't even want to think that you don't exist in any form anymore.
3. Do you still have feelings and memories of your life? Or do we forget everything after we're gone?
4. Can you see me? Can you hear me when I'm talking to your photograph?
1-4. I believe that he is sleeping in God's memory, that he is at total peace and unaware of our pain and sadness, nor feeling any of his own. Ecclesiastes 3:19, 20 and 9:5-10 mean to me that he is not in any pain or aware of what is happening now, but John 5:28, 29 and Revelation 21:3,4 mean to me that, soon, I will see him again, and he will be happy, and all of this pain will be behind us. I believe that, because he is asleep (unconscious), he has no memories of anything right now, but when he wakes up from "the memorial tomb" he will be who he is, with all of his memories of his loved ones intact. Even though I don't think he can hear me, I talk to his picture and write to him on my blog because it helps me to feel like I am directing that love at him, and I believe I will see him again and when I do I will tell him how I missed him and how I talked to him all the time like he was never gone.
5. How long until I see you again?
I don't know how long in hours or days, but I know that to God one day is as a thousand years and a thousand years is as one day, and it is because he is eternal and not bound by the limits of time. I believe that eventually we will all be freed from a temporary existence, and then even a thousand years will be to us as simple as a day, and the memory of the time we spend now missing him will be so small and insignificant that we may recall it only as a joke, like remembering being five and feeling like waiting thirty minutes for dinner was an unbearable torture. It seems like forever now, but someday not too far out, it will happen, and then the memory of this anxious waiting will fade. I keep looking ahead to that.
6. Why did you have to go? If everything happens for a reason, what's the reason for this nightmare? I don't think any reason will ever be good enough for taking away your life.
Ecclesiastes 9:11 means to me that some things are senseless, sometimes there is no reason or connection to the bigger plan, and we are all subject to unforeseen occurrences, such as my brother's death. I think the belief that all things happen for a reason come from a desire not to feel like it's all pointless, and that's why it is important to me that God has the power to undo any of those unforeseen occurrence, including a shocking and tragic departure like my brother's. I agree that no reason will ever be good enough, so it is comforting to me to think that it was not part of God's plan to take my brother away from me so painfully, it is just part of being human that he succumbed to death, and God's plan is to bring him back to me. (John 5:28 and Revelation 21:4)
7. Does S. know you're dead? Does she care? Will she get to see you earlier than me? Am I crazy to feel jealous of her being older than me? Then again you never know..You weren't supposed to die so young either.
Yes, S. knows. I don't know if she cares, but I can't imagine she would not care; they cared about each other once. But she was his past, and you were his present, and I think his very first thought upon waking will be, "Where is my I--?!?!?!" I think because of the verse I talked about above, it's pointless to think about age and death, because obviously the two are often not related, and anything can happen. Furthermore, as I said, you are the one he will be looking for when he is able to, not her.
8. Did you really relapse once or was it a habit?
8b. If once why that specific day? It wasn't any different than the others. Why did you choose to go back to that when in 2 days you were supposed to go stay with your gran for a while?
This question drives me crazy, too. We can't know, and it sucks. Will knowing make it any easier to take? I don't know; knowing his cause of death didn't make it any easier, so I don't know that knowing his frame of mind would, either. I think in the end, when it's all done and we finally get reunited, we will all forget to ask about this. For now, I hope you don't let it make you too crazy.
9. Did you realise what's about to happen when it happened? What were your last thoughts? If you knew this is the end, did it cross your mind that you're about to die while I'm waiting for your reply? My god, honey, I hope you didn't realize a thing.
This question (did he know what was happening?) makes me crazy, too. I like to think he had no chance to realize, that it was so quick that he had no idea. I think about the moments before falling asleep; my exact last thought is never really clear to me, just the general theme on my mind. So his last thoughts were about you, about his feelings for you (based on what we know from the investigation). I don't believe he is dreaming, but I think if he were, it would be a sweet one of you.
10. Do you miss me like I miss you?
I don't think there should be any doubt in your mind that he would miss you as much as you miss him. As I said, I don't believe he is conscious of what is happening, which is comforting to me, but I do think his very first thought upon returning to life will be of you.
In the days after his death, I read When Someone You Love Dies from beginning to end several times; it helped a lot. We all have our own understandings of things and I am in no way trying to intrude upon yours, I just derived a lot of comfort from this and I wanted to share it with you if you were interested. Whatever else, just know I am here for you if you need anything. <3
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Awful Coincidence
Today was harder than some days.
I'm in Salt Lake City, Utah, for mentor training (basically, learning how to be a good mentor to new interpreters). It's an incredible learning opportunity from a guru in the field of interpreter mentorship, and the information is like gold dripping from the lips of royalty. But I'm not fully here today.
Part of it is that I woke up at stupid o'clock in the morning, and that always robs me of some of my brain power. Part of it is that I don't really like this city. But part of it is you.
At the same time as this training there is another training in the same building for trilingual interpreters and I keep running into people I know. The topic of Jorge Dieppa's tragic murder keeps coming up, over and over and over, and I haven't resolved that yet. I'm not ready to discuss his senseless death with the proper amount of respect and outrage it deserves because every time I start to feel sad for my teacher I feel guilty; his death is so tangled up in yours in my head that I can't process it until I process yours better.
Jorge was my Spanish interpreting teacher for the trilingual training course I attend every summer. He was a genuinely nice person, and a fabulous teacher. He was jovial, always with a kind, supportive word. He had this incredible smile that he started every class with that made his students feel like he really loved being there with them, that he wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. He had high standards for us, but he did everything in his power -- from silly impressions of different accents to a concerted effort to fully understand our work with Deaf people -- to ensure that we were always able to meet those standards. He loved his work and he loved his students, and we loved him.
On July 6th, he was kidnapped in Ciudad Juarez and was murdered by his captors when he attempted to escape.
I learned of this a week after your death. It hit me hard; suddenly I was bawling like I hadn't even cried for you yet. It wasn't an indication of my level of grief that this news broke me like the other had not, it was more..the last straw. I was stretched so thin that a dead bird might have shattered me. But even so, this reaction triggered this deep-set guilt that I can't let go of. I haven't allowed myself to think about Jorge since the day I found out, because somehow I feel that I need to give you your well-deserved mourning period, that it needs to be pure and untarnished by any other sadness, before I am allowed to explore my feelings of loss concerning my teacher. I know that doesn't make logical sense, and I know you would not begrudge me sadness about Jorge or think it could in any way interfere with my abiding sadness over your departure. But that crazy moment where my dam burst and my reasons for purging got all tangled up and wires-crossed did permanent damage to my logic center on this issue. I just...can't.
And so now, here I am, surrounded by people who are sad for Jorge but don't realize how sad they should be about you, and I am trying to fake the level of interest in conversations about this revered community figure that I am supposed to have, and I am tired. I don't want to. But the world spins madly on, and on, and on...and I want off tonight.
I know this is not a healthy coping skill, but I curled up with a bottle of wine and my dessert and pretended like the world had disappeared. I'm wine-infused now and ready for bed, but I felt like I needed to tell you this before I slept.
Goodnight, Brother Moon.
I'm in Salt Lake City, Utah, for mentor training (basically, learning how to be a good mentor to new interpreters). It's an incredible learning opportunity from a guru in the field of interpreter mentorship, and the information is like gold dripping from the lips of royalty. But I'm not fully here today.
Part of it is that I woke up at stupid o'clock in the morning, and that always robs me of some of my brain power. Part of it is that I don't really like this city. But part of it is you.
At the same time as this training there is another training in the same building for trilingual interpreters and I keep running into people I know. The topic of Jorge Dieppa's tragic murder keeps coming up, over and over and over, and I haven't resolved that yet. I'm not ready to discuss his senseless death with the proper amount of respect and outrage it deserves because every time I start to feel sad for my teacher I feel guilty; his death is so tangled up in yours in my head that I can't process it until I process yours better.
Jorge was my Spanish interpreting teacher for the trilingual training course I attend every summer. He was a genuinely nice person, and a fabulous teacher. He was jovial, always with a kind, supportive word. He had this incredible smile that he started every class with that made his students feel like he really loved being there with them, that he wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. He had high standards for us, but he did everything in his power -- from silly impressions of different accents to a concerted effort to fully understand our work with Deaf people -- to ensure that we were always able to meet those standards. He loved his work and he loved his students, and we loved him.
On July 6th, he was kidnapped in Ciudad Juarez and was murdered by his captors when he attempted to escape.
I learned of this a week after your death. It hit me hard; suddenly I was bawling like I hadn't even cried for you yet. It wasn't an indication of my level of grief that this news broke me like the other had not, it was more..the last straw. I was stretched so thin that a dead bird might have shattered me. But even so, this reaction triggered this deep-set guilt that I can't let go of. I haven't allowed myself to think about Jorge since the day I found out, because somehow I feel that I need to give you your well-deserved mourning period, that it needs to be pure and untarnished by any other sadness, before I am allowed to explore my feelings of loss concerning my teacher. I know that doesn't make logical sense, and I know you would not begrudge me sadness about Jorge or think it could in any way interfere with my abiding sadness over your departure. But that crazy moment where my dam burst and my reasons for purging got all tangled up and wires-crossed did permanent damage to my logic center on this issue. I just...can't.
And so now, here I am, surrounded by people who are sad for Jorge but don't realize how sad they should be about you, and I am trying to fake the level of interest in conversations about this revered community figure that I am supposed to have, and I am tired. I don't want to. But the world spins madly on, and on, and on...and I want off tonight.
I know this is not a healthy coping skill, but I curled up with a bottle of wine and my dessert and pretended like the world had disappeared. I'm wine-infused now and ready for bed, but I felt like I needed to tell you this before I slept.
Goodnight, Brother Moon.
Monday, October 31, 2011
A Beautiful Day
Today was a good day for me.
This morning I got up on time even though I didn't set my clock (in a passive-aggressive attempt to shirk my responsibilities of the day). I almost went back to bed, which I would have regretted when I woke up the second time, but for some reason I decided not to. I still don't know what was different about this morning than every other morning that I've woken up and talked my half-asleep brain out of doing what I need to; I wish I did, so I could duplicate it in the future.
I spent the entire day in service with four of the nicest ladies -- two Spanish-speaking and two Deaf. We spent most of the time searching for Deaf people in our territory, but the day ended with L--- and me going to a nursing care facility to hold a bible study with a quadriplegic Deaf woman (S---) who was unable to move her fingers or lift her arms to sign to us.
I was touched to the point of tears at L---'s patience in trying to understand a request from this poor woman. L---, being Deaf herself, certainly relates the frustration that S--- must feel, a thousand-fold, with being unable to make herself understood. We spent half an hour trying to understand what S--- was asking us to do, and went away never having understood it. The whole experience made me appreciate my blessings and also recognize my flaws; I don't have a fraction of the selfless patience that L--- showed, or that S--- showed when we failed, again and again, to understand her.
The best part of the whole experience, though, was the reason for L-_-'s visit: to teach S--- about prayer. How to pray, what to pray about, and most importantly, that prayer is both necessary and healing.
All people pray, even those who claim not to believe in God (just put them in the right circumstance and they're willing to test out prayer on the off chance it might help). But many people -- even those with no doubt as to God's existence -- feel surprisingly awkward when it comes to actually developing a habit of talking to God through prayer. It makes sense to me; if you don't hear an answer back, and you aren't too sure you fully understand who you're talking to, and if nobody has ever really taught you how to do this seemingly-awkward thing, you might feel like it's better to save it for emergencies, when looking or feeling foolish is less important than, say, saving your skin. But when you move past the awkwardness, it becomes what it was meant to be: the sensation of never being all alone in the world, no matter where you are or what happens in your life.
So here is this woman, all alone most of the time in a bed she can't move from, surrounded by people she can't communicate with, and here comes L---, offering the notion of having someone she can pour her heart out to day and night, that she is never truly alone. It's one thing to believe in God, but it's quite another to feel that he is so close that you can speak to him at any time. For those of us who believe that, it's enough to bring you to tears just thinking about it. For someone to whom the idea is fairly new, it's...a feeling of wonder, maybe? Thinking back to that revelation for me, I would have to say that it felt like an enormous weight had lifted from my entire being. I know, that sounds hokey, but it's the truth, so there you go.
So, I got up on time to fulfill my obligations, I shared this beautiful moment with L--- and S---, and then, I mounted my bike on my car, drove to M---'s house, and we rode around for a bit, stopping and 5 & Diner for dinner. I felt strong, better than I did the last time, able to keep up and not take any breaks from the ride. In short, it was a good evening.
I felt accomplished today. Proud of myself. The peace of knowing I did what I was supposed to do was buoying, and the pleasure of physical exercise was invigorating. It was a good day. The only dark mark on today is the twinge of guilt I feel at having a good day when you have no days at all; it feels selfish. Next time maybe I will be able to enjoy it all without the guilt; we'll see.
<3
This morning I got up on time even though I didn't set my clock (in a passive-aggressive attempt to shirk my responsibilities of the day). I almost went back to bed, which I would have regretted when I woke up the second time, but for some reason I decided not to. I still don't know what was different about this morning than every other morning that I've woken up and talked my half-asleep brain out of doing what I need to; I wish I did, so I could duplicate it in the future.
I spent the entire day in service with four of the nicest ladies -- two Spanish-speaking and two Deaf. We spent most of the time searching for Deaf people in our territory, but the day ended with L--- and me going to a nursing care facility to hold a bible study with a quadriplegic Deaf woman (S---) who was unable to move her fingers or lift her arms to sign to us.
I was touched to the point of tears at L---'s patience in trying to understand a request from this poor woman. L---, being Deaf herself, certainly relates the frustration that S--- must feel, a thousand-fold, with being unable to make herself understood. We spent half an hour trying to understand what S--- was asking us to do, and went away never having understood it. The whole experience made me appreciate my blessings and also recognize my flaws; I don't have a fraction of the selfless patience that L--- showed, or that S--- showed when we failed, again and again, to understand her.
The best part of the whole experience, though, was the reason for L-_-'s visit: to teach S--- about prayer. How to pray, what to pray about, and most importantly, that prayer is both necessary and healing.
All people pray, even those who claim not to believe in God (just put them in the right circumstance and they're willing to test out prayer on the off chance it might help). But many people -- even those with no doubt as to God's existence -- feel surprisingly awkward when it comes to actually developing a habit of talking to God through prayer. It makes sense to me; if you don't hear an answer back, and you aren't too sure you fully understand who you're talking to, and if nobody has ever really taught you how to do this seemingly-awkward thing, you might feel like it's better to save it for emergencies, when looking or feeling foolish is less important than, say, saving your skin. But when you move past the awkwardness, it becomes what it was meant to be: the sensation of never being all alone in the world, no matter where you are or what happens in your life.
So here is this woman, all alone most of the time in a bed she can't move from, surrounded by people she can't communicate with, and here comes L---, offering the notion of having someone she can pour her heart out to day and night, that she is never truly alone. It's one thing to believe in God, but it's quite another to feel that he is so close that you can speak to him at any time. For those of us who believe that, it's enough to bring you to tears just thinking about it. For someone to whom the idea is fairly new, it's...a feeling of wonder, maybe? Thinking back to that revelation for me, I would have to say that it felt like an enormous weight had lifted from my entire being. I know, that sounds hokey, but it's the truth, so there you go.
So, I got up on time to fulfill my obligations, I shared this beautiful moment with L--- and S---, and then, I mounted my bike on my car, drove to M---'s house, and we rode around for a bit, stopping and 5 & Diner for dinner. I felt strong, better than I did the last time, able to keep up and not take any breaks from the ride. In short, it was a good evening.
I felt accomplished today. Proud of myself. The peace of knowing I did what I was supposed to do was buoying, and the pleasure of physical exercise was invigorating. It was a good day. The only dark mark on today is the twinge of guilt I feel at having a good day when you have no days at all; it feels selfish. Next time maybe I will be able to enjoy it all without the guilt; we'll see.
<3
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
It's All Greek to Me
Today somebody said that: "It's all Greek to me." I giggled and told her that I can't say that anymore, because that would mean I understand it at least a little bit. A very little bit; it seems like there are new grammar rules in play that I have not encountered before. Definitely the three genders thing (English has only a few nominally-gendered words and Spanish has two genders). And something about the changing of nouns based on the verb that I haven't quite caught on to yet. I'm sure it will be explained at some point, but my brain likes rules to organize these ideas and I am not getting any spelled out for me (and it's a little uncomfortable).
I wish you were learning Greek with me. Wouldn't it be fun to go through the lessons together? You would have laughed your face off at the 'you don't understand Greek' lesson. I don't know, maybe I would have gotten on your nerves with how picky I am bout the rules once I understand them. But I think it would have been fun. I found your file on your computer with the Greek notes you had taken; you were really into it. I wish you could have finished. <3
I wish you were learning Greek with me. Wouldn't it be fun to go through the lessons together? You would have laughed your face off at the 'you don't understand Greek' lesson. I don't know, maybe I would have gotten on your nerves with how picky I am bout the rules once I understand them. But I think it would have been fun. I found your file on your computer with the Greek notes you had taken; you were really into it. I wish you could have finished. <3
Monday, October 24, 2011
Old People
I just want to call you and ask you how you are, to catch you up on my life and maybe bug you a little to quit smoking/clean up/get back in school/take care of your health/whatever else I see that needs fixing, because that is what sisters do.
But I can't call you anymore. I can never call you again.
I keep thinking about old people. They talk about families that are mostly dead, siblings they outlive by decades, even, people who died before color television was invented. I remember being struck by the tears in one octogenarian's eyes when she talked about her brother who died young of a disease we cure with penicillin nowadays; I felt sad for her, but I didn't really understand how someone who had disappeared from her life so many decades ago could still be painful to think about.
Now I think about myself at eighty, telling some other young kid who doesn't get it about my brother who died fifty years ago when we had to fight cancer with radiation and chemo and too many people lost the battle. And I know that kid will be fixated on what life must have been like, back in my day, and maybe a little uncomfortable with the tears in my eyes as I remember my brother who died way too young. They won't get it, either.
I get it. Fifty years from now, I will probably still get the urge to pick up the phone and call you, and it will still take my breath away a little when I remind myself for the billionth time that a phone is not powerful enough to cross the line that's between us now.
But I can't call you anymore. I can never call you again.
I keep thinking about old people. They talk about families that are mostly dead, siblings they outlive by decades, even, people who died before color television was invented. I remember being struck by the tears in one octogenarian's eyes when she talked about her brother who died young of a disease we cure with penicillin nowadays; I felt sad for her, but I didn't really understand how someone who had disappeared from her life so many decades ago could still be painful to think about.
Now I think about myself at eighty, telling some other young kid who doesn't get it about my brother who died fifty years ago when we had to fight cancer with radiation and chemo and too many people lost the battle. And I know that kid will be fixated on what life must have been like, back in my day, and maybe a little uncomfortable with the tears in my eyes as I remember my brother who died way too young. They won't get it, either.
I get it. Fifty years from now, I will probably still get the urge to pick up the phone and call you, and it will still take my breath away a little when I remind myself for the billionth time that a phone is not powerful enough to cross the line that's between us now.
Funny Stuff
Pimsleur Greek, Level 1 Unit 9, is basically a long example of how to reject a clueless guy. It goes something like this:
"Miss would you like to have a drink with me?"
"That's ma'am, and no I don't want to."
"What time would you like to have a drink with me? At one?"
"No, I don't want to."
"At eight?"
"No, thank you."
"At...nine? At the hotel?"
"No, sir, I don't want to."
"Or at two, at the restaurant?"
"No. Not at the restaurant."
"Oh, I understand! You don't want to have a drink with me."
"Yes, you understand. I don't want to."
"Ok, but do you want to have lunch with me?"
"No."
"At the restaurant or at the hotel? At eight or at nine?"
"No, sir. Not at the restaurant, not at the hotel, not at one or two or eight or nine. You don't understand."
"What don't I understand?"
"Greek!!"
Hahahahaha. Literally, that was the lesson. There were some other things thrown in, but that was the gist of it. I was having a hard time remembering to answer in Greek because I was busy waiting for, "If you don't go away right now I'm calling the cops."
Best. Greek. Lesson. EVAR. Wish you could laugh with me about it. <3
"Miss would you like to have a drink with me?"
"That's ma'am, and no I don't want to."
"What time would you like to have a drink with me? At one?"
"No, I don't want to."
"At eight?"
"No, thank you."
"At...nine? At the hotel?"
"No, sir, I don't want to."
"Or at two, at the restaurant?"
"No. Not at the restaurant."
"Oh, I understand! You don't want to have a drink with me."
"Yes, you understand. I don't want to."
"Ok, but do you want to have lunch with me?"
"No."
"At the restaurant or at the hotel? At eight or at nine?"
"No, sir. Not at the restaurant, not at the hotel, not at one or two or eight or nine. You don't understand."
"What don't I understand?"
"Greek!!"
Hahahahaha. Literally, that was the lesson. There were some other things thrown in, but that was the gist of it. I was having a hard time remembering to answer in Greek because I was busy waiting for, "If you don't go away right now I'm calling the cops."
Best. Greek. Lesson. EVAR. Wish you could laugh with me about it. <3
Thursday, October 20, 2011
That Crazy Thing I Keep Doing
Today I was feeling sorry for myself because I am short and fat and some things are hard to do when one is short and fat. And I thought that maybe being short and fat would indirectly lead to losing a job I am doing, a job I happen to enjoy both for the challenge and for the atmosphere. And I worried myself into a stomach ache, and maybe grew a little ulcer in my aching stomach, and then all of the worry was suddenly washed away by a few words of praise from someone who, incidentally, reminds me very much of you. And I thought what a silly thing it was to worry about, that being short and fat and a little slower than a gym bunny does not invalidate how good I am at my job, and I could practically hear you in my ear chiding me to give myself a little more credit. And I missed you so much and I wished I could call you to tell you that I was feeling insecure so that you could tell me to shut up and be the strong woman we all know I am. And I still miss you.
Today I told M--- about that crazy thing I keep doing. It was an accident, telling her; she had my phone because I was showing her the picture of ducks I took this morning (no less that 25 beautiful green and grey Mallards leading the way through the parking lot!). And she started flicking through the photos, past the butterfly/moth hybrid I found yesterday (who stubbornly refused to open his wings so I could capture the full glory and curiousness of his existence). And then I realized she was about to land on that picture, the one that twists my gut in knots of sick anticipation, the one I cannot look away from once I land there, and I had to warn her to stop. And I could think of no clever excuse, and anyway, my cleverness is more like blurting, and so I blurted.
She looked dismayed -- that is the best word for her facial expression: dismay. So I fumbled to explain, but there really are no good words to make her understand how I need that photographic evidence, how it anchors me to this path of grief that every cell in my body is rising up against. Every trick my mind can think to play on me, to convince me that it was all a dream, a hoax, a terrible misunderstanding, is waylaid by that single image. I need to see it, because if I don't I will never believe it, and if I never believe it I will never let go of this heaviness in the core of my being. For the mind has a million tricks and machinations, but the body is not fooled. The body holds every sadness in a knot at its center, waiting for the mind to acknowledge and unravel it. When I look at your eyes, they might almost be sleeping, and each time I feel a tiny thread untangle and drift away from me. It is crazy to do this, it causes dismay in the minds of those who do not understand, but it is as necessary as breathing, so I will not stop until I find a different way to breathe.
Today I told M--- about that crazy thing I keep doing. It was an accident, telling her; she had my phone because I was showing her the picture of ducks I took this morning (no less that 25 beautiful green and grey Mallards leading the way through the parking lot!). And she started flicking through the photos, past the butterfly/moth hybrid I found yesterday (who stubbornly refused to open his wings so I could capture the full glory and curiousness of his existence). And then I realized she was about to land on that picture, the one that twists my gut in knots of sick anticipation, the one I cannot look away from once I land there, and I had to warn her to stop. And I could think of no clever excuse, and anyway, my cleverness is more like blurting, and so I blurted.
She looked dismayed -- that is the best word for her facial expression: dismay. So I fumbled to explain, but there really are no good words to make her understand how I need that photographic evidence, how it anchors me to this path of grief that every cell in my body is rising up against. Every trick my mind can think to play on me, to convince me that it was all a dream, a hoax, a terrible misunderstanding, is waylaid by that single image. I need to see it, because if I don't I will never believe it, and if I never believe it I will never let go of this heaviness in the core of my being. For the mind has a million tricks and machinations, but the body is not fooled. The body holds every sadness in a knot at its center, waiting for the mind to acknowledge and unravel it. When I look at your eyes, they might almost be sleeping, and each time I feel a tiny thread untangle and drift away from me. It is crazy to do this, it causes dismay in the minds of those who do not understand, but it is as necessary as breathing, so I will not stop until I find a different way to breathe.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Some Days
Some days it's like a twinge,
an unsettled thought tapping gently
at the back of a harried mind,
a feeling of slight misalignment
that I wear like two different-sized shoes.
Some days it's an iron fist slamming into my brain,
shoving all other thoughts out and
crashing into the back of my skull over and over
until I feel it start to crack.
Some days it's almost tranquil,
a soft, blue-tinted whisper on the edge of a dream,
and the only thing that holds me back from
settling into that sweet sleep is guilt
at finding any semblance of peace so soon.
Some days it's everything all tossed in together
like one of my mother's stews:
nothing I want, but it's all there is.
Some days I can handle the stew.
Some days I can walk for miles.
Some days I remember to breathe.
an unsettled thought tapping gently
at the back of a harried mind,
a feeling of slight misalignment
that I wear like two different-sized shoes.
Some days it's an iron fist slamming into my brain,
shoving all other thoughts out and
crashing into the back of my skull over and over
until I feel it start to crack.
Some days it's almost tranquil,
a soft, blue-tinted whisper on the edge of a dream,
and the only thing that holds me back from
settling into that sweet sleep is guilt
at finding any semblance of peace so soon.
Some days it's everything all tossed in together
like one of my mother's stews:
nothing I want, but it's all there is.
Some days I can handle the stew.
Some days I can walk for miles.
Some days I remember to breathe.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
You would love
this place. Maybe not the uniforms, but the rest would thrill you. I wish I could tell you all the funny stories.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Εγω δεν καταλαβαινο
Δεν μιλαω ΕΛΛΥΝΙΚΑ καλα αλλα θα 'ηθελα να στον αδερφό μου: Σ' ΑΓΑΠ'Ω. Μαθαίνω Ελληνικά για εσάς.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Learning Greek
I've been devoting a lot of serious effort to learning Greek recently, in preparation for my upcoming journey to lay a part of you to rest there. On the one hand, I am a polyglot and a linguaphile and I would embrace the opportunity to learn any language where the opportunity and practical rationale presented themselves. But on the other hand, I can't help but fixate on the reality that Greek was nowhere on my radar before you vanished from my life.
I had recently purchased materials to begin learning Japanese, I had seriously considered enrolling in a Mandarin class, I had been playing with Arabic in microscopic increments, and of course, the Romance languages are still in my queue (Spanish down, French the most likely next contender). But neither Greece nor Greek had captured my attention in any serious manner.
And then suddenly the earth tilted. Suddenly a star burned out. Suddenly plans made were mocked and my Japanese program fell into a bin with all of my other imaginings and began to gather dust, and I found myself seeking the best format for mastering (or at least making peace with) Ελληνικα.
I think my pronunciation is okay. My recall seems to be good (except I can't for the life of me seem to remember how to say 'hello' no matter how many times that mild-mannered Pimsleur coach repeats it). I'm not having any trouble so far with the prescribed methods for absorbing this language. But this experience is different than all other language learning adventures I have embarked on in the past.
I lack the enthusiasm I've had in past linguistic endeavors. Whereas my mastery of a new skill in ASL or Spanish or Arabic was always tinged with excitement and pride, in Greek, it is simply a fact. I feel numb to this experience; it is a practical undertaking. I don't wish to be in Greece with no ability to communicate basic needs, and so I am committed to learning as much as I can before I go. But I don't feel the joy that I should as a linguaphile. I don't feel the wonder of exploration I should, the curiosity surrounding points of grammar and shades of meaning. I am just putting on the language like a raincoat with no adornment, as though it were a simple garment with an exclusively utilitarian existence.
And I know why. Because if the world were as I wished it, I would not be learning Greek at all. Perhaps, some years down the road, if you had married your sweet I--, I might have found a reason to learn Greek. Perhaps you would have moved to Greece, or her mother would have moved with her to America, and I would need Greek to communicate with my extended family. Perhaps I simply would have been exposed to it and chosen to learn it simply because it caught my fancy. But surely I would be doing so with you, and not in your stead. And since I am not doing so for the sake of sharing life experiences with you, but as a way to honor you in death, I am finding the joy difficult to create.
I asked my friend M-- to learn with me. I am giving her copies of my materials and hoping that having a partner for whom there is no such sadness will help me discover the joy I know I should be feeling. She shares my enthusiasm for languages and for learning; perhaps she can show me the light. I hope so, because learning is never optimal in darkness, and I have this work to do.
I had recently purchased materials to begin learning Japanese, I had seriously considered enrolling in a Mandarin class, I had been playing with Arabic in microscopic increments, and of course, the Romance languages are still in my queue (Spanish down, French the most likely next contender). But neither Greece nor Greek had captured my attention in any serious manner.
And then suddenly the earth tilted. Suddenly a star burned out. Suddenly plans made were mocked and my Japanese program fell into a bin with all of my other imaginings and began to gather dust, and I found myself seeking the best format for mastering (or at least making peace with) Ελληνικα.
I think my pronunciation is okay. My recall seems to be good (except I can't for the life of me seem to remember how to say 'hello' no matter how many times that mild-mannered Pimsleur coach repeats it). I'm not having any trouble so far with the prescribed methods for absorbing this language. But this experience is different than all other language learning adventures I have embarked on in the past.
I lack the enthusiasm I've had in past linguistic endeavors. Whereas my mastery of a new skill in ASL or Spanish or Arabic was always tinged with excitement and pride, in Greek, it is simply a fact. I feel numb to this experience; it is a practical undertaking. I don't wish to be in Greece with no ability to communicate basic needs, and so I am committed to learning as much as I can before I go. But I don't feel the joy that I should as a linguaphile. I don't feel the wonder of exploration I should, the curiosity surrounding points of grammar and shades of meaning. I am just putting on the language like a raincoat with no adornment, as though it were a simple garment with an exclusively utilitarian existence.
And I know why. Because if the world were as I wished it, I would not be learning Greek at all. Perhaps, some years down the road, if you had married your sweet I--, I might have found a reason to learn Greek. Perhaps you would have moved to Greece, or her mother would have moved with her to America, and I would need Greek to communicate with my extended family. Perhaps I simply would have been exposed to it and chosen to learn it simply because it caught my fancy. But surely I would be doing so with you, and not in your stead. And since I am not doing so for the sake of sharing life experiences with you, but as a way to honor you in death, I am finding the joy difficult to create.
I asked my friend M-- to learn with me. I am giving her copies of my materials and hoping that having a partner for whom there is no such sadness will help me discover the joy I know I should be feeling. She shares my enthusiasm for languages and for learning; perhaps she can show me the light. I hope so, because learning is never optimal in darkness, and I have this work to do.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Starbucks and laptops
My unofficial poll of Starbucks wifi users comes in at 9 to 2 in favor of MacBooks. I'm not sure if that means the Macs are too cheap to spring for their own mobile hotspots or that Mac is overtaking PC in portable popularity. I know you would be annoyed with that observation, though.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Its not that I forget,
It's just that I keep myself busy so I won't remember. But then I pass by you in your corner and my heart skips a beat or two. Then I shuffle through my pictures and you flash across the screen and I forget to take a breath or two. And it's not the pictures on my desktop or my home screen that compel me to pause. It's the one, that one, the one I can't pass quickly by but in fear of which my heart races every time I know it's coming up. There is nothing inherently frightening in those salmon-colored pixels, no, the look is so serene that it might be sleep to an uninitiated observer. But the leap my heart takes against the back of my chest is a recoil: a race against reality, rebellion at the reminder. Proof that sinks into me over and over again, and yet, knowing it approaches, I cannot tear my eyes away. It's not that I forget, it's just that being busy make memory seem more distant, less heavy.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Crimnal Minds
I've been watching Criminal Minds lately. It's horrific story after horrific story about how depraved human beings can be; some episodes are based on actual serial killers and some are dreamed up in the minds of people who are actually being paid to think like sociopaths might.
As a writer, I am both enthralled and repulsed by the relationship the show's writers have to the material. On the one hand, I am not an ex-CIA agent with a tragic past that drove me to murder-for-hire, but I have no problem delving into the mind of Sidrah Samuels deeply enough to write her character convincingly. On the other hand, while I don't share her history, I do share some of her propensity for dark thoughts and wallowing, and a nagging voice in my head begs the question of whether, under the exact same pressures that Sid faces, I would not react as she does. So I have to wonder how idle these clearly-elaborate thoughts of sadistic torture really are in the minds of these writers. Purely a creative outlet? Where is that line? Where is my line? I wonder a lot of things, and this is on my list.
I have so many squirrels...
The point of this post was simply to comment that I find the drama in the episode I am currently watching unrelatable and obnoxious. ***SERIOUS SPOILERS AHEAD*** In S07E01, 'It Takes A Village', the BAU team learns that Emily Prentiss did not actually die last season, as they had all been led to believe. Her death was faked in order to save her life, and she was given a fake identity and whisked off to France. Of course, the show being what it is, eventually she is the only person who can solve a case (particularly, the very case that had her whisked off to Paris in the first place), and the bombshell lands on the team just before she walks in the room. Are they elated? Do they run to embrace her? Do they sigh with wonder and burst into relieved-but-incredulous-and-highly-confused tears? No. No they do not. They stare. And then they give a collective cold shoulder to her and to the two people who knew she was alive but protected her identity (to save her life, you recall).
What. The. Hell? Pardon my French, but I am seriously annoyed. Let me tell you, if I found out that my brother's death was an elaborate hoax designed and carried out by my wayward sibling himself with no other goal besides the wreaking of emotional trauma on his family, I would still be overjoyed to find out that he was actually not gone from this earth. I would run to him and throw my arms around him, and cry and jump for joy. Maybe later I would cuss him out and possibly punch him in the mouth for being such a jerk, but then I would get on with making up for lost time and consider it a privilege to have become so acutely aware of the regrets I would have at his death and then miraculously having the opportunity to rectify those regrets.
This show is making me angry tonight. Instead of pondering what it is about this show that makes it easier to miss my brother (I can't really explain it, other than the fact that he was not dissected by a psycopath, so there is something to be grateful for in the manner of his death, awful as it is), instead I will simply press stop. I will go to bed. And maybe I will write those writers a letter:
"Dear Writers,
Your premise is flawed. Please redo this episode the right way. I look forward to the corrections.
Sincerely,
A Perfectly Reasonable Fan
P.S. Please get Reid a girlfriend. She could be a super-genius, also; that would be interesting.
P.P.S. You really don't need to show the gore. No, really; it's getting out of hand."
I think that's all I have to say tonight.
<3
As a writer, I am both enthralled and repulsed by the relationship the show's writers have to the material. On the one hand, I am not an ex-CIA agent with a tragic past that drove me to murder-for-hire, but I have no problem delving into the mind of Sidrah Samuels deeply enough to write her character convincingly. On the other hand, while I don't share her history, I do share some of her propensity for dark thoughts and wallowing, and a nagging voice in my head begs the question of whether, under the exact same pressures that Sid faces, I would not react as she does. So I have to wonder how idle these clearly-elaborate thoughts of sadistic torture really are in the minds of these writers. Purely a creative outlet? Where is that line? Where is my line? I wonder a lot of things, and this is on my list.
I have so many squirrels...
The point of this post was simply to comment that I find the drama in the episode I am currently watching unrelatable and obnoxious. ***SERIOUS SPOILERS AHEAD*** In S07E01, 'It Takes A Village', the BAU team learns that Emily Prentiss did not actually die last season, as they had all been led to believe. Her death was faked in order to save her life, and she was given a fake identity and whisked off to France. Of course, the show being what it is, eventually she is the only person who can solve a case (particularly, the very case that had her whisked off to Paris in the first place), and the bombshell lands on the team just before she walks in the room. Are they elated? Do they run to embrace her? Do they sigh with wonder and burst into relieved-but-incredulous-and-highly-confused tears? No. No they do not. They stare. And then they give a collective cold shoulder to her and to the two people who knew she was alive but protected her identity (to save her life, you recall).
What. The. Hell? Pardon my French, but I am seriously annoyed. Let me tell you, if I found out that my brother's death was an elaborate hoax designed and carried out by my wayward sibling himself with no other goal besides the wreaking of emotional trauma on his family, I would still be overjoyed to find out that he was actually not gone from this earth. I would run to him and throw my arms around him, and cry and jump for joy. Maybe later I would cuss him out and possibly punch him in the mouth for being such a jerk, but then I would get on with making up for lost time and consider it a privilege to have become so acutely aware of the regrets I would have at his death and then miraculously having the opportunity to rectify those regrets.
This show is making me angry tonight. Instead of pondering what it is about this show that makes it easier to miss my brother (I can't really explain it, other than the fact that he was not dissected by a psycopath, so there is something to be grateful for in the manner of his death, awful as it is), instead I will simply press stop. I will go to bed. And maybe I will write those writers a letter:
"Dear Writers,
Your premise is flawed. Please redo this episode the right way. I look forward to the corrections.
Sincerely,
A Perfectly Reasonable Fan
P.S. Please get Reid a girlfriend. She could be a super-genius, also; that would be interesting.
P.P.S. You really don't need to show the gore. No, really; it's getting out of hand."
I think that's all I have to say tonight.
<3
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Depleted
I am angry at every tragedy.
I am incensed
at senseless death and violence.
I am fraught with fury
over false hopes
and political posturing
over dead men's heads.
I add up all the losses,
trace back every shed tear and
set of shoulders slumped
under the weight of
too much, too often,
and I find that I have overspent.
My grief has been depleted by
too many bad days and
too many bad men
and I have nothing left to give you now
besides this slow-burning fire.
You disappeared in a puff of smoke
like magic in reverse
and I cannot cry for you
so I smolder instead.
I am incensed
at senseless death and violence.
I am fraught with fury
over false hopes
and political posturing
over dead men's heads.
I add up all the losses,
trace back every shed tear and
set of shoulders slumped
under the weight of
too much, too often,
and I find that I have overspent.
My grief has been depleted by
too many bad days and
too many bad men
and I have nothing left to give you now
besides this slow-burning fire.
You disappeared in a puff of smoke
like magic in reverse
and I cannot cry for you
so I smolder instead.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Skin
Sometimes
I'm driving down the road,
cars on either side of me
taking up too much space,
and suddenly a tightness grips me,
blooms in my chest and spreads
until I feel like my skin is five sizes too small.
Or maybe I feel like I don't have any skin at all,
because everything is raw
like no new skin ever grew --
no skin that knows how to miss you
and drive in straight lines, too.
It lasts long enough to make me wonder
if I should stay on the road,
but just when I'm about to pull off,
it recedes as quick as it came,
and I start to feel like I can trust my skin again,
and it gets me to my destination.
And then I start to think that maybe new skin
is growing in, after all,
because the air doesn't hurt so much anymore.
And I think that maybe I can do this,
maybe I can grow these scars,
maybe it's not as bad as everyone says,
and I let myself think about puppies
and periwinkle
and the square root of pi.
I let my mind wander in safe little circles
for whole minutes even,
but before I know it, the memory of a single eyelash
engulfs me and I can't breathe again.
And then I realize that there is no order to this,
there is no blueprint, no estimated time of arrival.
There is just me, on an endless road,
without my skin.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Abilities
I keep thinking about all of the things that I can do.
I can sing.
I can dance.
I can act.
I can write all different manner of things.
I can speak several languages.
I can speak in different accents.
I can perform for a large crowd without a twinge of fear.
I can make people laugh.
I can make people think.
I can motivate people.
I can encourage people.
I can help people.
I can do things many people only dream of, and yet I can't help dreaming of trading all of those abilities for just one: the ability to bring back the dead.
I can sing.
I can dance.
I can act.
I can write all different manner of things.
I can speak several languages.
I can speak in different accents.
I can perform for a large crowd without a twinge of fear.
I can make people laugh.
I can make people think.
I can motivate people.
I can encourage people.
I can help people.
I can do things many people only dream of, and yet I can't help dreaming of trading all of those abilities for just one: the ability to bring back the dead.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Addiction
I remember addiction.
I smoked my first cigarette when I was only eleven, and smoked it for real the first time when I was thirteen. I used to steal Marlboros from Bashas, or change from my mom's purse to buy them at the liquor store where my cleavage was my ID. I used to fight over the last cigarette, and pace nervously in desperate anticipation. I begged smokes off of strangers. I smoked strangers' butts out of ashtrays. Now that I think about this, the mystery of where I got my first cold sore is probably solved (but the mystery of how I don't have something far worse is not).
I remember quitting. J--- didn't smoke, and I was self-conscious about it. I knew I tasted like an ashtray and didn't want to kiss him with that mouth. So I decided to quit. Little did I know that the Welbutrin I had been prescribed for depression was a mega dose of the same stuff they gave people to quit smoking, and other than a few days of cravings and irritability, and a few almost-slips (like grabbing a cigarette from a friend right as J-- walked in the gate), quitting was pretty uneventful. I just quit.
But then I started again. Not quite like the last time I 'quit' for a few days when I ran out of cigarettes and decided not to buy any more. I had been off the nicotine for months. Then I randomly decided to smoke a cigarette on the way home from work, and suddenly I was smoking again. Then I got pregnant. So I quit again. Then I lost the baby, and the first thing I did after was smoke a cigarette (even though J-- thought he had talked me out of it). Basically, I was playing at quitting.
I don't really remember the last cigarette I smoked. I don't remember that moment of finality when I was clearly determined to be done with it all. I think it slowly settled in as my convictions slowly solidified; one day Jehovah was more important to me than smoking, and sex, and even J---. Of course, quitting J--- was harder to do. It took something bigger than willpower to finally be done with him. If I'm being honest, the decision being taken out of my hands is what had to happen for me to be done with him. I guess love is my drug of choice.
All these years later, cigarettes are still in my dreams. I dream that I am still a secret smoker, that I am living a lie, pretending to be smoke-free while harboring packs of cigarettes tucked into secret corners. I dream that people see me smoke but don't really understand what I'm doing. Maybe the cigarettes are a metaphor for other things (who really knows when it comes to dreams?), or maybe it is my addiction asserting itself deep in my subconscious. I just know that in my dreams, smoking is delicious, and I couldn't stop if you held a gun to my head.
My waking mind has a little more dominion. Or should I say, my waking mind remembers why I don't want to smoke. No, it's not for my health, although that would be a very good reason to abstain. And it's not the cost (I hear interpreters are well-paid, but that might just be a rumor). No, my waking mind remembers that I made a promise on February 26, 2000, and this is one part of that promise that is easy to keep. It is a simple matter of never looking back.
And yet, the dreams. And yet, when the right elements combine -- a smell, a sound, an emotion -- the craving comes on strong, like I never quit in the first place. I haven't smoked a cigarette in over 12 years, but I can still remember the taste, the feeling of relief as the nicotine hit my bloodstream. I forget for microseconds that I am not a smoker. But then my promise reminds me. I think it's not my promise so much as the One I promised that snaps me back to attention and keeps me away from that vile, deadly habit.
Cigarettes are not even my drug of choice. I don't have to explain what dreams I have of J---. I don't have to explain how I crave those feelings, how they sit in my mind every day like anxious puppies, tail-wagging for my attention as I try to distract myself with daily living. I have not found a suitable partner, and so I have to push those thoughts away, and those are the ones that take up the most space, so that nicotine doesn't have much of a stage to dance on.
If I have these thoughts about my addictions, and if I cannot conquer them by my own power, if the only reason that I am not living the life I lived before is because I gave that part of myself over as well as I could, to be managed by someone far more powerful than I, then it is no surprise to me that my brother had a moment of weakness. The surprise is that he did not have it sooner. I am humbled by my brother's strength of will.
"Goodnight, sweet brother. I will see you when you wake."
I smoked my first cigarette when I was only eleven, and smoked it for real the first time when I was thirteen. I used to steal Marlboros from Bashas, or change from my mom's purse to buy them at the liquor store where my cleavage was my ID. I used to fight over the last cigarette, and pace nervously in desperate anticipation. I begged smokes off of strangers. I smoked strangers' butts out of ashtrays. Now that I think about this, the mystery of where I got my first cold sore is probably solved (but the mystery of how I don't have something far worse is not).
I remember quitting. J--- didn't smoke, and I was self-conscious about it. I knew I tasted like an ashtray and didn't want to kiss him with that mouth. So I decided to quit. Little did I know that the Welbutrin I had been prescribed for depression was a mega dose of the same stuff they gave people to quit smoking, and other than a few days of cravings and irritability, and a few almost-slips (like grabbing a cigarette from a friend right as J-- walked in the gate), quitting was pretty uneventful. I just quit.
But then I started again. Not quite like the last time I 'quit' for a few days when I ran out of cigarettes and decided not to buy any more. I had been off the nicotine for months. Then I randomly decided to smoke a cigarette on the way home from work, and suddenly I was smoking again. Then I got pregnant. So I quit again. Then I lost the baby, and the first thing I did after was smoke a cigarette (even though J-- thought he had talked me out of it). Basically, I was playing at quitting.
I don't really remember the last cigarette I smoked. I don't remember that moment of finality when I was clearly determined to be done with it all. I think it slowly settled in as my convictions slowly solidified; one day Jehovah was more important to me than smoking, and sex, and even J---. Of course, quitting J--- was harder to do. It took something bigger than willpower to finally be done with him. If I'm being honest, the decision being taken out of my hands is what had to happen for me to be done with him. I guess love is my drug of choice.
All these years later, cigarettes are still in my dreams. I dream that I am still a secret smoker, that I am living a lie, pretending to be smoke-free while harboring packs of cigarettes tucked into secret corners. I dream that people see me smoke but don't really understand what I'm doing. Maybe the cigarettes are a metaphor for other things (who really knows when it comes to dreams?), or maybe it is my addiction asserting itself deep in my subconscious. I just know that in my dreams, smoking is delicious, and I couldn't stop if you held a gun to my head.
My waking mind has a little more dominion. Or should I say, my waking mind remembers why I don't want to smoke. No, it's not for my health, although that would be a very good reason to abstain. And it's not the cost (I hear interpreters are well-paid, but that might just be a rumor). No, my waking mind remembers that I made a promise on February 26, 2000, and this is one part of that promise that is easy to keep. It is a simple matter of never looking back.
And yet, the dreams. And yet, when the right elements combine -- a smell, a sound, an emotion -- the craving comes on strong, like I never quit in the first place. I haven't smoked a cigarette in over 12 years, but I can still remember the taste, the feeling of relief as the nicotine hit my bloodstream. I forget for microseconds that I am not a smoker. But then my promise reminds me. I think it's not my promise so much as the One I promised that snaps me back to attention and keeps me away from that vile, deadly habit.
Cigarettes are not even my drug of choice. I don't have to explain what dreams I have of J---. I don't have to explain how I crave those feelings, how they sit in my mind every day like anxious puppies, tail-wagging for my attention as I try to distract myself with daily living. I have not found a suitable partner, and so I have to push those thoughts away, and those are the ones that take up the most space, so that nicotine doesn't have much of a stage to dance on.
If I have these thoughts about my addictions, and if I cannot conquer them by my own power, if the only reason that I am not living the life I lived before is because I gave that part of myself over as well as I could, to be managed by someone far more powerful than I, then it is no surprise to me that my brother had a moment of weakness. The surprise is that he did not have it sooner. I am humbled by my brother's strength of will.
"Goodnight, sweet brother. I will see you when you wake."
Saturday, August 27, 2011
A Lesser Loss
I feel like my brother's death suddenly went from tragic to expected, like my right to cry and question God and wish and remember fondly is somehow revoked now that the doctor of death has handed down his verdict. Like people think my brother less worthy of the beautiful flowers we got for his funeral, less worthy of the volunteers who handled the services and the friends who held my hand. Or like they think if it had been their brother, they would have known that he had relapsed, would have stopped it somehow.
Or maybe I'm just condemning myself. After all, I'm educated in both worlds -- the academic world of the science of drug addiction, and the real world of drug-addled neighbors, friends, and family members. I have no excuse, really, not to know he was using, except that I seem to make it a point not to know much at all about my family. I am far too important to worry over little things like my brother killing himself day by day in his grungy apartment.
I have been floating along for so many weeks on a cushion of comfort, on this idea that these demons were behind him (though I knew the devil was not) and some other villain took him out of this world. A pharmaceutical company, perhaps, or negligent physicians. Cause unknown, I coached myself, reminded myself that this was a possibility, that once an addict, always an addict, either practicing or recovering, that recovery is a process and there are many dangerous slips along the road. But still, even as I cautioned myself to remember those days of gut-wrenching fear and all the wisdom they brought with them, still, I didn't really believe myself. I knew there must be some villain to be named in a dramatic revelation by Doctor Death that would absolve my brother of guilt, thus absolving me.
To be quite honest, I did not long for the revelation like the rest of my family did. I was content with the mystery, though I played at frustration over it, because part of me knew that there would be no revelation, no villain that I did not already know by heart. When my mother called to tell me that Doctor Death had handed down his verdict, I dragged my feet at calling her back. There was no urgency, unless it was to move in the opposite direction; I was not fooling myself.
I knew, and now there is no room left for denial. And yet, the hole in my heart is the same shape as ever. I do not wish any less that he were still here, I do not feel that he deserved it any more. He is not a statistic, one of those people, a sad story, he is not a lesser loss. He is my brother and he is dead.
Or maybe I'm just condemning myself. After all, I'm educated in both worlds -- the academic world of the science of drug addiction, and the real world of drug-addled neighbors, friends, and family members. I have no excuse, really, not to know he was using, except that I seem to make it a point not to know much at all about my family. I am far too important to worry over little things like my brother killing himself day by day in his grungy apartment.
I have been floating along for so many weeks on a cushion of comfort, on this idea that these demons were behind him (though I knew the devil was not) and some other villain took him out of this world. A pharmaceutical company, perhaps, or negligent physicians. Cause unknown, I coached myself, reminded myself that this was a possibility, that once an addict, always an addict, either practicing or recovering, that recovery is a process and there are many dangerous slips along the road. But still, even as I cautioned myself to remember those days of gut-wrenching fear and all the wisdom they brought with them, still, I didn't really believe myself. I knew there must be some villain to be named in a dramatic revelation by Doctor Death that would absolve my brother of guilt, thus absolving me.
To be quite honest, I did not long for the revelation like the rest of my family did. I was content with the mystery, though I played at frustration over it, because part of me knew that there would be no revelation, no villain that I did not already know by heart. When my mother called to tell me that Doctor Death had handed down his verdict, I dragged my feet at calling her back. There was no urgency, unless it was to move in the opposite direction; I was not fooling myself.
I knew, and now there is no room left for denial. And yet, the hole in my heart is the same shape as ever. I do not wish any less that he were still here, I do not feel that he deserved it any more. He is not a statistic, one of those people, a sad story, he is not a lesser loss. He is my brother and he is dead.
Knowing
The final blow
and I breathe a breath I didn't know
I was holding,
folding creases in the pages
like these stages
can be filed away in alphabetical order,
under A for autopsy,
or maybe B for brother.
Such a stoic reception
for such a shattering confession:
deception in a resolute half-smile.
While all the while,
I tried to cope,
and all the while,
I tried to hope...
all the while,
it was that stupid dope.
What a terrible joke.
and I breathe a breath I didn't know
I was holding,
folding creases in the pages
like these stages
can be filed away in alphabetical order,
under A for autopsy,
or maybe B for brother.
Such a stoic reception
for such a shattering confession:
deception in a resolute half-smile.
While all the while,
I tried to cope,
and all the while,
I tried to hope...
all the while,
it was that stupid dope.
What a terrible joke.
August 24, 2011
I thought I wanted to know. I thought I needed closure, that knowing what had taken my little brother out of my life would help me somehow accept the loss of him at only thirty years old. I thought if I had some concrete thing to point to and say, "This is the reason I can no longer visit my brother and pester him about cleaning his apartment/going back to school/getting his son back/taking better care of his health," then maybe I could file it all away under "D" for "Dead Brother" and go about my life as if it all made sense somehow. I really thought I wanted to know.
"It is my opinion that the cause of death was an accidental overdose of meth-amphetamines."
Now I know.
"It is my opinion that the cause of death was an accidental overdose of meth-amphetamines."
Now I know.
Packing
I'm packing your life into boxes
and stacking my grief on the floor,
with labels to give it some meaning
(then carry it all out the door):
letters you wrote to your lover,
pictures you saved of your son...
I'm sorting them into neat piles --
a cache of a life come undone.
and stacking my grief on the floor,
with labels to give it some meaning
(then carry it all out the door):
letters you wrote to your lover,
pictures you saved of your son...
I'm sorting them into neat piles --
a cache of a life come undone.
I Wish
I wish I could see you again.
I wish I knew why I can't.
I wish I had known this was coming.
I wish I could cry more.
I wish I could dream of you every night.
I wish I could touch your face.
I wish you weren't dead.
I wish I had kept your son for you.
I wish I had been a better influence.
I wish I could rewind to all of my missed opportunities and recognize them.
I wish I had spent more time with you.
I wish I had known how to help you when you were sad.
I wish I had been more selfless.
I wish I could fast-forward to the next time we see each other.
I wish I could give your son his father back.
I wish I had more for your girlfriend than a box of ashes and a teddy bear.
I wish I could make up for the kindness that's missing from the world now.
I wish I could hold your hand.
I wish it had been me.
I wish I knew why I can't.
I wish I had known this was coming.
I wish I could cry more.
I wish I could dream of you every night.
I wish I could touch your face.
I wish you weren't dead.
I wish I had kept your son for you.
I wish I had been a better influence.
I wish I could rewind to all of my missed opportunities and recognize them.
I wish I had spent more time with you.
I wish I had known how to help you when you were sad.
I wish I had been more selfless.
I wish I could fast-forward to the next time we see each other.
I wish I could give your son his father back.
I wish I had more for your girlfriend than a box of ashes and a teddy bear.
I wish I could make up for the kindness that's missing from the world now.
I wish I could hold your hand.
I wish it had been me.
Dear C---
I love you. I miss you. I wish I could tell you all of the things I want you to know. I wish I could laugh with you one more time. I wish I weren't so selfish, that I hadn't felt so bothered when you called to talk, or needed attention. I wish I hadn't gone a whole year without talking to you and not even noticed. I wish I had never enticed you to smoke cigarettes or pot. I wish I had done more for you. I wish I had kept M--- here so you could have had more of a relationship with him. I wish everything.
I wish I could cry for you more. I wish I could do something about this. I wish I could fast-forward my life to the next time I see you again. I wish I could rewind our lives to whatever missed opportunities to help you I didn't see. I wish I knew what killed you. I wish it had been me instead. I wish I could give your son more time with you. I wish I could give I--- more than a box of ashes and a teddy bear. I wish Mom hadn't lost her only son. I wish I had spent more time with you. I wish you were here.
I wish I could cry for you more. I wish I could do something about this. I wish I could fast-forward my life to the next time I see you again. I wish I could rewind our lives to whatever missed opportunities to help you I didn't see. I wish I knew what killed you. I wish it had been me instead. I wish I could give your son more time with you. I wish I could give I--- more than a box of ashes and a teddy bear. I wish Mom hadn't lost her only son. I wish I had spent more time with you. I wish you were here.
Ephemeral
I breathed you in
with cherry blossoms,
a too-short spring:
warmwet newness
and laughter bouncing
high and fast and
gone.
I sang you out into the night
among silver stars and moonlight
and you flickered and
faded
at the first sign of dawn.
I dreamed you
in a wisp of smoke and ash,
and the weight of it
fell down around my feet,
crushed in the trudging
everyday drum song.
with cherry blossoms,
a too-short spring:
warmwet newness
and laughter bouncing
high and fast and
gone.
I sang you out into the night
among silver stars and moonlight
and you flickered and
faded
at the first sign of dawn.
I dreamed you
in a wisp of smoke and ash,
and the weight of it
fell down around my feet,
crushed in the trudging
everyday drum song.
Playacting
I'm working on working
on things that matter,
but as a matter of fact
it's only chatter:
noise to drown the violence
in the silence of this void.
I fake a smile,
make it laugh, then
quick as fast
I fill you in,
and grieve again,
can't breathe again
and I beg for sleep
to dream again.
I shut you out
and feign acceptance,
push you back
into the recess,
hold you high above my head
and breathe in everydayness.
The process doesn't fit my ache;
though you were never mine to take,
this letting go is only fake:
a break that's made to look like bending.
My hope and sadness keep on blending,
and this ocean's never-ending.
The ocean never ends
and my breaking never bends
and this smile's just pretend.
on things that matter,
but as a matter of fact
it's only chatter:
noise to drown the violence
in the silence of this void.
I fake a smile,
make it laugh, then
quick as fast
I fill you in,
and grieve again,
can't breathe again
and I beg for sleep
to dream again.
I shut you out
and feign acceptance,
push you back
into the recess,
hold you high above my head
and breathe in everydayness.
The process doesn't fit my ache;
though you were never mine to take,
this letting go is only fake:
a break that's made to look like bending.
My hope and sadness keep on blending,
and this ocean's never-ending.
The ocean never ends
and my breaking never bends
and this smile's just pretend.
Algebra
I've worked the problem a few different times,
but the figures just don't fit together.
The answer should be six
or four
or two
but your absence leaves an odd number
and I can't isolate the variables.
You multiplied by zero and left me with nothing,
divided by zero and left me confused.
Even knowing that when it's all done,
the parentheses around you will be removed,
that you have not been subtracted from me forever,
I still wonder if anything greater than or equal to this sadness
has ever been felt before.
Yet nothing in an equation can disappear,
it can only be moved,
and as you have been subtracted from my present,
I know that you must be added back to my future.
So I'll continue working the formula,
trying to find order in these operations.
I'll keep my balance on all sides,
and I'll be ready for when it is time
for death to be solved
once and for all.
but the figures just don't fit together.
The answer should be six
or four
or two
but your absence leaves an odd number
and I can't isolate the variables.
You multiplied by zero and left me with nothing,
divided by zero and left me confused.
Even knowing that when it's all done,
the parentheses around you will be removed,
that you have not been subtracted from me forever,
I still wonder if anything greater than or equal to this sadness
has ever been felt before.
Yet nothing in an equation can disappear,
it can only be moved,
and as you have been subtracted from my present,
I know that you must be added back to my future.
So I'll continue working the formula,
trying to find order in these operations.
I'll keep my balance on all sides,
and I'll be ready for when it is time
for death to be solved
once and for all.
Eulogy
Dear C---,
First things first: there's gonna be mushy stuff in here, and for once you can't pretend not to like it. So there.
So, where does one begin writing a eulogy for their little brother? Certainly not in their thirties, that's for sure. You were supposed to be a crochety old man by the time I had to do this. No, better yet, I was supposed to be gone for at least two years by the time this ever needed writing, because I am supposed to be two years ahead of you at everything. I guess life had other plans...
I still wake up every morning and remind myself that you are gone, and then spend all day forgetting. Like, even writing this, I was trying to remember some of the names and dates and times that only you and I know, and I kept wanting to sign into messenger and ask you about them. But I had to remind myself that you're gonna be offline for awhile.
I keep flashing back to our teen years, to the days of running wild in the streets with you. Poor Mom, working sixty to eighty hour weeks, didn't have a prayer of keeping us tied down. We did some really funny stuff, some inconceivably stupid stuff, with the occasional flash of wisdom to keep us alive. I remember spending day after day in our kitchen with our equally wild friends, playing spades or dominoes, depending on the audience. Didn't matter which one we played, nobody could beat us. We had that middle-sibling mind-meld thing going; we didn't have to cheat to know the other person's hand. Remember when T--- got so excited that one time when he had the double five, just at the right moment, to pull his score up with ours? He slammed the domino down on the table so hard the table broke in half, and you told him, “My mom is gonna kick your ass!” He was a big, barrel-chested man, and Mom is all of 4'11”, but you fully believed it. Actually, I did, too. Actually, so did T---.
I'm really gonna miss the fun we used to have. I'm going to miss a lot of things while you're gone. Your eyebrows, for one, and the constant urge I always had to pluck them. Your laugh, your sense of humor, and your wit. Your utter inability to whisper in the movie theater. The fact that you always, always said just what you meant, just how you felt, with no prevarication or hesitation. The fact that you felt things more deeply than anyone really knew. And your scar tattoo. Like the scar on A---'s eye, it was my stamp of ownership on my little brother, a reminder of me that you could never escape. Proof of life, as it were.
Mom always used to get mad at us for fighting. She said when we got older we were all each other would have. She worried so much that we would grow up and be glad to be rid of each other. She didn't understand that arguing like that was all part of our bonding. I've known a lot of siblings, and I am so proud to say that not very many are as close as we have always been, fistfights, scars, and all.
But your sisters were not the only people you loved. Your son M--- was more important to you than breathing. I remember the day he was born, you came to my apartment, floating in a cloud of euphoria. “I'm a dad! I have a son!” you kept repeating, over and over again. You had this big, goofy smile stuck to your face like superglue. In the nearly twelve years since, I have never seen you as happy as that day. Love and families are complicated, and your little family is no exception, but there can be no doubt of the depth of your love for your son. My heart breaks for all of the moments you will miss with him.
You were a father, and you were also a son. Mothers and sons have this pure, uncomplicated relationship, in a way daughters can only envy. When you were little, you told Mom that you were gonna be an astronaut when you grew up, so you could give her a ride in your rocket ship. I remember thinking, when I heard that story as a snotty teenager, 'Hey – can you leave her on the moon on your way back down?' Whenever one of us would complain to you about Mom, if you thought we were being too hard on her, you would defend her. We love Mom, too, of course. Of course! But we are daughters. There is nothing like a son's love for his mother, and you were no exception.
Fathers and sons, on the other hand, are as complicated as mothers and daughters. Even so, it was clear that you and your father deeply loved each other. He called you, “Last word C---,” because you always found a way to have the last word. But today the words belong to him; he sent me his memories to share:
“Son, I remember the day, the hour, the minute you were born. I got to hold you only a minute after birth, and I don't think I took my eyes off you for the next four months. Even from the time you were little, you had a smile that could make a person laugh when they were down. With that smile, from 2 years to thirty, you knew how to use it to make a day better. There will never be a day in my life I will not think about you, remember you, and cry about you, my son.”
The wisdom goes that men who treat their mothers well also treat their women well. It's also said that men with sisters make better boyfriends. Ya know, cuz we train ya. I only know from the outside, of course, but I think your love with I--- has made the truth of that clear. You kept her sort of a secret for a while. I think you thought we wouldn't understand; people dismiss online relationships as not real, and I think that's probably true for a lot of people. But not you two. Only real love could have made you so happy. Only real love could pull you out of the darkness, out of the sadness that you sometimes fell into. You spent all of your days talking to your love, all of your nights dreaming of her. You wrote her poetry, sang her songs, even. You were doing everything you could to cross an entire ocean and pull her into your arms, and I know that if you had the chance, you would have made it. And I know that you two would have proven everyone wrong about how people fall in love, and how they stay that way. “I've never been so happy and sad at the same time,” you told her in one of your poems that you wrote her about the miles between you two. She felt the same. And she wanted me to read some words from her, so here goes:
“A few days after I met you, I asked you how you calm yourself when you know hard times are coming. You first joked about it; you said you drank milk, and I laughed. Then you told me the following words:
“Well, I've always been naturally calm, for the most part, and, ok, remember, two things have no purpose in life. First is regret, the second is worry. Neither does anything productive. So just believe in yourself and do the best you can. That's what I tell myself in hard times, that easier times will come, and hard times should be appreciated, because without them we wouldn't know what easy is.”
You always managed to find the bright side in everything. You were a strong, kind, selfless person. In fact, I had told you numerous times that I have never met anyone nearly as kind as you. I truly believe that your heart is made of gold, C---. You made a HUGE impact on my life. I don't think you ever knew how huge. Your words gave me strength and will continue to do so.
Sweetie, I will always love you and never forget you. I promise you. BUT! Just wait until it's my time to come there, too. I will hunt you down and kick your ass – yes, the one you used to shake on camera – for leaving so damn early. And remember, don't do anything I would do.”
I really think she means to do that.
You had this wonderful sense of adventure, little brother. You could find the funny in every situation. You didn't have much, but you would offer whatever you had to someone in need – a heart of gold, as Ifi said. You felt everything deeply – love, sadness, empathy, joy. You were a treasure of a person, and you will be desperately missed.
But I know I will see you again. The bible makes that promise at Acts 24:15, where it says, “and I have hope toward God...that there is going to be a resurrection of both the righteous and the unrighteous.” If even the unrighteous will have a chance to live again, then I know, I believe with all of my cells, that I will see those eyebrows again someday. You believed that, too. We may not all agree in our family on how that is gonna happen, but one thing all of us are convinced of is that we WILL see you again. So, sleep sweet, my precious little brother. I will be there when you wake.
As the water rises up to overtake me,
I see you standing on the far shore,
waving me back to dry land.
It's not time for me to follow yet,
so I will watch the tides come in
all the days until you come back
with them.
(sung)
BROTHER GOODNIGHT,
SEE YOU SOON.
BROTHER GOODNIGHT,
BROTHER MOON.
First things first: there's gonna be mushy stuff in here, and for once you can't pretend not to like it. So there.
So, where does one begin writing a eulogy for their little brother? Certainly not in their thirties, that's for sure. You were supposed to be a crochety old man by the time I had to do this. No, better yet, I was supposed to be gone for at least two years by the time this ever needed writing, because I am supposed to be two years ahead of you at everything. I guess life had other plans...
I still wake up every morning and remind myself that you are gone, and then spend all day forgetting. Like, even writing this, I was trying to remember some of the names and dates and times that only you and I know, and I kept wanting to sign into messenger and ask you about them. But I had to remind myself that you're gonna be offline for awhile.
I keep flashing back to our teen years, to the days of running wild in the streets with you. Poor Mom, working sixty to eighty hour weeks, didn't have a prayer of keeping us tied down. We did some really funny stuff, some inconceivably stupid stuff, with the occasional flash of wisdom to keep us alive. I remember spending day after day in our kitchen with our equally wild friends, playing spades or dominoes, depending on the audience. Didn't matter which one we played, nobody could beat us. We had that middle-sibling mind-meld thing going; we didn't have to cheat to know the other person's hand. Remember when T--- got so excited that one time when he had the double five, just at the right moment, to pull his score up with ours? He slammed the domino down on the table so hard the table broke in half, and you told him, “My mom is gonna kick your ass!” He was a big, barrel-chested man, and Mom is all of 4'11”, but you fully believed it. Actually, I did, too. Actually, so did T---.
I'm really gonna miss the fun we used to have. I'm going to miss a lot of things while you're gone. Your eyebrows, for one, and the constant urge I always had to pluck them. Your laugh, your sense of humor, and your wit. Your utter inability to whisper in the movie theater. The fact that you always, always said just what you meant, just how you felt, with no prevarication or hesitation. The fact that you felt things more deeply than anyone really knew. And your scar tattoo. Like the scar on A---'s eye, it was my stamp of ownership on my little brother, a reminder of me that you could never escape. Proof of life, as it were.
Mom always used to get mad at us for fighting. She said when we got older we were all each other would have. She worried so much that we would grow up and be glad to be rid of each other. She didn't understand that arguing like that was all part of our bonding. I've known a lot of siblings, and I am so proud to say that not very many are as close as we have always been, fistfights, scars, and all.
But your sisters were not the only people you loved. Your son M--- was more important to you than breathing. I remember the day he was born, you came to my apartment, floating in a cloud of euphoria. “I'm a dad! I have a son!” you kept repeating, over and over again. You had this big, goofy smile stuck to your face like superglue. In the nearly twelve years since, I have never seen you as happy as that day. Love and families are complicated, and your little family is no exception, but there can be no doubt of the depth of your love for your son. My heart breaks for all of the moments you will miss with him.
You were a father, and you were also a son. Mothers and sons have this pure, uncomplicated relationship, in a way daughters can only envy. When you were little, you told Mom that you were gonna be an astronaut when you grew up, so you could give her a ride in your rocket ship. I remember thinking, when I heard that story as a snotty teenager, 'Hey – can you leave her on the moon on your way back down?' Whenever one of us would complain to you about Mom, if you thought we were being too hard on her, you would defend her. We love Mom, too, of course. Of course! But we are daughters. There is nothing like a son's love for his mother, and you were no exception.
Fathers and sons, on the other hand, are as complicated as mothers and daughters. Even so, it was clear that you and your father deeply loved each other. He called you, “Last word C---,” because you always found a way to have the last word. But today the words belong to him; he sent me his memories to share:
“Son, I remember the day, the hour, the minute you were born. I got to hold you only a minute after birth, and I don't think I took my eyes off you for the next four months. Even from the time you were little, you had a smile that could make a person laugh when they were down. With that smile, from 2 years to thirty, you knew how to use it to make a day better. There will never be a day in my life I will not think about you, remember you, and cry about you, my son.”
The wisdom goes that men who treat their mothers well also treat their women well. It's also said that men with sisters make better boyfriends. Ya know, cuz we train ya. I only know from the outside, of course, but I think your love with I--- has made the truth of that clear. You kept her sort of a secret for a while. I think you thought we wouldn't understand; people dismiss online relationships as not real, and I think that's probably true for a lot of people. But not you two. Only real love could have made you so happy. Only real love could pull you out of the darkness, out of the sadness that you sometimes fell into. You spent all of your days talking to your love, all of your nights dreaming of her. You wrote her poetry, sang her songs, even. You were doing everything you could to cross an entire ocean and pull her into your arms, and I know that if you had the chance, you would have made it. And I know that you two would have proven everyone wrong about how people fall in love, and how they stay that way. “I've never been so happy and sad at the same time,” you told her in one of your poems that you wrote her about the miles between you two. She felt the same. And she wanted me to read some words from her, so here goes:
“A few days after I met you, I asked you how you calm yourself when you know hard times are coming. You first joked about it; you said you drank milk, and I laughed. Then you told me the following words:
“Well, I've always been naturally calm, for the most part, and, ok, remember, two things have no purpose in life. First is regret, the second is worry. Neither does anything productive. So just believe in yourself and do the best you can. That's what I tell myself in hard times, that easier times will come, and hard times should be appreciated, because without them we wouldn't know what easy is.”
You always managed to find the bright side in everything. You were a strong, kind, selfless person. In fact, I had told you numerous times that I have never met anyone nearly as kind as you. I truly believe that your heart is made of gold, C---. You made a HUGE impact on my life. I don't think you ever knew how huge. Your words gave me strength and will continue to do so.
Sweetie, I will always love you and never forget you. I promise you. BUT! Just wait until it's my time to come there, too. I will hunt you down and kick your ass – yes, the one you used to shake on camera – for leaving so damn early. And remember, don't do anything I would do.”
I really think she means to do that.
You had this wonderful sense of adventure, little brother. You could find the funny in every situation. You didn't have much, but you would offer whatever you had to someone in need – a heart of gold, as Ifi said. You felt everything deeply – love, sadness, empathy, joy. You were a treasure of a person, and you will be desperately missed.
But I know I will see you again. The bible makes that promise at Acts 24:15, where it says, “and I have hope toward God...that there is going to be a resurrection of both the righteous and the unrighteous.” If even the unrighteous will have a chance to live again, then I know, I believe with all of my cells, that I will see those eyebrows again someday. You believed that, too. We may not all agree in our family on how that is gonna happen, but one thing all of us are convinced of is that we WILL see you again. So, sleep sweet, my precious little brother. I will be there when you wake.
As the water rises up to overtake me,
I see you standing on the far shore,
waving me back to dry land.
It's not time for me to follow yet,
so I will watch the tides come in
all the days until you come back
with them.
(sung)
BROTHER GOODNIGHT,
SEE YOU SOON.
BROTHER GOODNIGHT,
BROTHER MOON.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Shock
I can't think of you sitting there
stopped
in your chair,
no breath in you,
no life there.
Can't think of you sitting there.
I can't think of us as three;
we are four,
we will always be.
I can't think of me without you --
you are part of me.
And I know there are those whose breath
was more tied to yours,
those with hopes and dreams
that you starred in,
those who gave breath to you
and those who you gave breath to,
and I understand that their grief must be
mountains next to mine,
but I can't contemplate a pain like that
when mine already cuts so deep
that I can't sleep
because I see you there
in your chair
offline;
and I can't dream
because I see your eyes
half open,
your hand bruised,
your life broken,
and the last words spoken
don't make sense.
I can't sleep,
I can't dream,
I can't breathe,
I can't believe.
stopped
in your chair,
no breath in you,
no life there.
Can't think of you sitting there.
I can't think of us as three;
we are four,
we will always be.
I can't think of me without you --
you are part of me.
And I know there are those whose breath
was more tied to yours,
those with hopes and dreams
that you starred in,
those who gave breath to you
and those who you gave breath to,
and I understand that their grief must be
mountains next to mine,
but I can't contemplate a pain like that
when mine already cuts so deep
that I can't sleep
because I see you there
in your chair
offline;
and I can't dream
because I see your eyes
half open,
your hand bruised,
your life broken,
and the last words spoken
don't make sense.
I can't sleep,
I can't dream,
I can't breathe,
I can't believe.
Stages
Breathing cigarettes, and sweat,
and staleness,
contemplating paleness:
the light gone dim
(the shape of him
rescaled).
Captured fragments in this fabric
feel so final, few, and fine.
He is mine,
but only glimpses flashing past:
micro blasts of warm air
cooling quickly,
and they hit me harder every time.
If only I could look upon his face as he sleeps.
If only he could hold my hand as I weep.
If only I could bargain with these promises I keep.
If only death were mine to master.
and staleness,
contemplating paleness:
the light gone dim
(the shape of him
rescaled).
Captured fragments in this fabric
feel so final, few, and fine.
He is mine,
but only glimpses flashing past:
micro blasts of warm air
cooling quickly,
and they hit me harder every time.
If only I could look upon his face as he sleeps.
If only he could hold my hand as I weep.
If only I could bargain with these promises I keep.
If only death were mine to master.
The Seconds Since
The seconds
have grown larger
Since.
Used to be
I couldn't pick them up
with my bare hands;
they passed so fast
and I dashed
through the days
chasing them.
Now
I see them
with my naked eye.
They grow larger as I watch,
filling up with your absence,
crowding the breath from my chest,
pushing thoughts out of my head.
They pulse with the beat
that your heart no longer keeps,
wrap themselves around me
and hold me down,
pour cement into my belly,
lava in my chest.
They grow large and heavy
like an earth without gravity,
so that I float around
impotent
inside them.
They fill up with galaxies --
whole universes
stretched end to end
across forever,
and you are not
in any of them.
have grown larger
Since.
Used to be
I couldn't pick them up
with my bare hands;
they passed so fast
and I dashed
through the days
chasing them.
Now
I see them
with my naked eye.
They grow larger as I watch,
filling up with your absence,
crowding the breath from my chest,
pushing thoughts out of my head.
They pulse with the beat
that your heart no longer keeps,
wrap themselves around me
and hold me down,
pour cement into my belly,
lava in my chest.
They grow large and heavy
like an earth without gravity,
so that I float around
impotent
inside them.
They fill up with galaxies --
whole universes
stretched end to end
across forever,
and you are not
in any of them.
I Just Stood There Wishing
You looked like you were sleeping. I wanted to lay down next to you and put my arms around you. I wanted you to stand up and ask me what I was staring at. I wanted you to come home and ask where all your things had gotten to, and who on earth had vacuumed, to say that you liked your dust just where it was, thank you very much, and why would anyone throw away a perfectly good colander? I wanted to hear you cuss like you used to, tell me to butt out, light a cigarette and tell me you were gonna quit those d*mn things soon. I wanted to go home and sign into iChat and see you online, have a long conversation over webcam even though we live in the same city. Maybe we would fight about something stupid, or laugh about something stupid, or wax poetic for a second, because sometimes you did that, too.
?
Was I sleeping?
Stacking books in a box,
or sorting odds and ends?
Was I snoring,
fighting off the morning,
or was I bored,
eating sushi,
pouring a drink?
Was I standing by the sink
washing dishes,
wishing someone else would wash them?
Was I laughing at a silly joke,
or poking at the laundry pile?
Was it while I walked the dogs,
or swept the floor,
or before I woke,
even while I dreamed of you?
Maybe if I knew just when
and promised
never to do that thing again --
maybe then
I could hear you breathe
again.
Stacking books in a box,
or sorting odds and ends?
Was I snoring,
fighting off the morning,
or was I bored,
eating sushi,
pouring a drink?
Was I standing by the sink
washing dishes,
wishing someone else would wash them?
Was I laughing at a silly joke,
or poking at the laundry pile?
Was it while I walked the dogs,
or swept the floor,
or before I woke,
even while I dreamed of you?
Maybe if I knew just when
and promised
never to do that thing again --
maybe then
I could hear you breathe
again.
Restless
My hands are flitting about
like little sparrows
looking for crumbs to peck.
My eyes dart around like
lizards,
purpose-seeking missiles
zeroing in on specks
of imaginary dust.
I have never been so restless,
but then
you have never been dead
before.
like little sparrows
looking for crumbs to peck.
My eyes dart around like
lizards,
purpose-seeking missiles
zeroing in on specks
of imaginary dust.
I have never been so restless,
but then
you have never been dead
before.
How I Grieve
I grieve
the same way I do everything:
analytically,
slicing open memories
to see what makes them tick.
Sorrow wells inside
swells in tides
and tries
to overtake me,
but I grieve
the same way I do everything,
so I wrap my mind around the tide
and force it back inside.
I grieve
the same way I do everything:
cheerfully,
finding bright spots
in dark corners.
I mourn you with laughter
instead of tears,
and though I fear I am not understood,
I know you would see the good
in bringing light to this darkness,
and anyway,
I do not know another way.
I grieve
the same way I do everything:
thoroughly,
unreservedly,
candidly and frankly.
There is not a thought
that I have caught
in this mangled web of sorrow
which I have held back
from scrutiny,
which I have not displayed
for outside eyes to see.
I don't know if those eyes
can see the same light as mine,
but this is all I know to be.
I grieve
the same way I do everything:
I put the pen to paper
and my fingers tell me how I feel.
the same way I do everything:
analytically,
slicing open memories
to see what makes them tick.
Sorrow wells inside
swells in tides
and tries
to overtake me,
but I grieve
the same way I do everything,
so I wrap my mind around the tide
and force it back inside.
I grieve
the same way I do everything:
cheerfully,
finding bright spots
in dark corners.
I mourn you with laughter
instead of tears,
and though I fear I am not understood,
I know you would see the good
in bringing light to this darkness,
and anyway,
I do not know another way.
I grieve
the same way I do everything:
thoroughly,
unreservedly,
candidly and frankly.
There is not a thought
that I have caught
in this mangled web of sorrow
which I have held back
from scrutiny,
which I have not displayed
for outside eyes to see.
I don't know if those eyes
can see the same light as mine,
but this is all I know to be.
I grieve
the same way I do everything:
I put the pen to paper
and my fingers tell me how I feel.
Your Eyes
I saw your eyes today;
they were beautiful
and sad.
A little boy
who lost his dad
was looking up at me
through them.
I smiled for him
and held him as close
as a pre-teen boy would let
an almost-stranger,
said goodbye to him
like I was saying it to you.
See you soon, I said.
I'm here if you need me,
and I will come spend time with you
when I can.
And it was like you again,
like last time we talked
and I was busy and had to run
but I knew I could call you
any time.
So this time,
no vague empty promises
to call when I have extra time;
those are your eyes,
and the only time
I will ever have
is right now.
they were beautiful
and sad.
A little boy
who lost his dad
was looking up at me
through them.
I smiled for him
and held him as close
as a pre-teen boy would let
an almost-stranger,
said goodbye to him
like I was saying it to you.
See you soon, I said.
I'm here if you need me,
and I will come spend time with you
when I can.
And it was like you again,
like last time we talked
and I was busy and had to run
but I knew I could call you
any time.
So this time,
no vague empty promises
to call when I have extra time;
those are your eyes,
and the only time
I will ever have
is right now.
Untitled
I sat in your chair;
doesn't seem right that you weren't sitting there.
I watched a lizard crawl up a hot stone wall,
a stopstart slithering crawl,
and all I thought was,
"Why does his heart beat --
why does he crawl and breathe and eat
when you can't watch his lizardly feat?"
Read a poem you wrote --
it was beautiful.
It rhymed, but I didn't mind
(sometimes a person just needs to rhyme),
and I thought,
"That man loved with a passion I
don't ever remember having
so why is he gone
and I carry on?"
I can't look your memory in the face directly
yet,
I keep poking at the edges with my fingers
and pulling at little strings
to see what unravels,
but your smile is faded,
your laugh is muted,
and the shape of you is only approximate
in the gaps in my heart.
Someday I will refine the edges
so I can hold you just so,
but for now all I can think is,
I was not ready for you to go.
doesn't seem right that you weren't sitting there.
I watched a lizard crawl up a hot stone wall,
a stopstart slithering crawl,
and all I thought was,
"Why does his heart beat --
why does he crawl and breathe and eat
when you can't watch his lizardly feat?"
Read a poem you wrote --
it was beautiful.
It rhymed, but I didn't mind
(sometimes a person just needs to rhyme),
and I thought,
"That man loved with a passion I
don't ever remember having
so why is he gone
and I carry on?"
I can't look your memory in the face directly
yet,
I keep poking at the edges with my fingers
and pulling at little strings
to see what unravels,
but your smile is faded,
your laugh is muted,
and the shape of you is only approximate
in the gaps in my heart.
Someday I will refine the edges
so I can hold you just so,
but for now all I can think is,
I was not ready for you to go.
The Empty Air
I'm clawing at the air,
at that empty space where
you used to be.
I never looked too close, just always knew
that you were tucked away in your corner
for when I thought of you.
And I thought,
I came first, I will leave first,
so you will always be behind me,
all I have to do is turn around.
But you tricked me:
the air is empty there.
You are nowhere,
and I can't remember your voice
already.
When you were standing on the edge
of that evil precipice
daring me to look,
poised to jump,
or be pushed,
or slip and fall away from me,
I was ready for you,
ready for your game.
I held on to the air that held you,
because I knew one day
I would not see your face there.
But then you stepped away
from that Cliff,
you jumped back,
and I thought my days of looking back
were gone,
thought you would always be there --
as I came first,
I would go first,
and you would still be.
But somehow what I knew
was never true;
you are not you.
The air is still there,
but your breath is absent,
and I do not know where to look for you.
at that empty space where
you used to be.
I never looked too close, just always knew
that you were tucked away in your corner
for when I thought of you.
And I thought,
I came first, I will leave first,
so you will always be behind me,
all I have to do is turn around.
But you tricked me:
the air is empty there.
You are nowhere,
and I can't remember your voice
already.
When you were standing on the edge
of that evil precipice
daring me to look,
poised to jump,
or be pushed,
or slip and fall away from me,
I was ready for you,
ready for your game.
I held on to the air that held you,
because I knew one day
I would not see your face there.
But then you stepped away
from that Cliff,
you jumped back,
and I thought my days of looking back
were gone,
thought you would always be there --
as I came first,
I would go first,
and you would still be.
But somehow what I knew
was never true;
you are not you.
The air is still there,
but your breath is absent,
and I do not know where to look for you.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)