I’ve always been the kind of person who knew something or rather ‘felt’ something was coming, before it got there. The day I wrote the poem, “The Blackest Wings” I thought I was writing of my own death or another illness piled upon the ones I already have.
I felt like death was hovering around me, and it was close, but I couldn’t put my finger upon it, but it was something I should be prepared for, so I braced myself. For the past year I have been preparing for my brother’s death. He wasn’t deathly ill, but I knew he would be the next in our family to die, I knew it was time for a death. We had had two births and the devil was due his cut. I knew this as well as I know my name.
And that morning I wrote that poem, I never put the two feelings together. And here I am, connecting dots and writing of my brother’s death.
The day before he died, I had told my therapist I was afraid for him. That he was going to do something stupid. Like drink too much or something like that, I just knew something was not right for or with him. She asked me what I thought it was and with a straight face I said, “I’m afraid he’s dead.” The next morning, we found out he was, we still don’t know why, just that it was medical.
People keep asking us how and about toxicology reports and other rude rumors. For he did party and dabble and peoples minds always think the worse.
It doesn’t matter to me the HOW! Just the fact that he is GONE. I will never see or hear my brother’s voice again. Part of me didn’t believe it. Still expecting to hear from him, to hear that it was a mistake. But eventually, I deleted his phone numbers from my phone and realized, he was gone.
I never blamed God or damned him. I would just keep crying that; ‘someone took my brother away.’ In the beginning all I could do was cry and feel anger. Anger that he left me. Tears because he wasn’t here to protect me anymore. He was the oldest.
My mother lost her first born and when I told her, the words she said were, ‘I wish I could dig up his father and beat him and kick him and beat him for what he did to my children.’.
My father never knew how to be a father, cause his died when he was very young. And he basically raised himself. But it wasn’t until my ’40’s that I learned of the physical and mental abuse he put on my brother and how it tore him up inside like a secret eating at his soul.
He never had a chance to come to terms with those feelings. He was just beginning therapy and beginning a path where good things were ahead, it just required patience. Something someone with ADHD has very little of and he didn’t have the tools to move thru this life with mental illness.
I tried to teach him what I could, and he learned a few tricks thru his faith.
Faith or rather a promise is what brought me some peace concerning his death. The promise of resurrection, when we will be reunited again.
I’ve never spoken of religion here, because although I have my faith. I don’t go to church. I simply believe and respect everyone else’s right to believe and practice whatever works for them to live in this world.
But this soothes me and works for me and quelled my anger. Lessened my tears. Although there are days I still cry in my breakfast and wake with the words, ‘my brother is dead’.
I have to wake a half hour before I can take my psych meds. They are the hardest half hour in my life. For I grieve all over again and I realize without my Latuda and Xanax, I would be in deep distress.
The funeral is on Friday and I expect tears and that sharp pain in my heart again when I see his body, one final time. I’m not looking forwards to it. I wish it were done and over with and then there’s the repast my relatives want. But my mother and I do not. We just want to go home and crawl in the bed and sleep.
And can I add that funerals are more expensive than it takes to live a month of life. We had to scale back so many things and still, almost didn’t have enough. I hold disgust for this necessity of life and the greed surrounding it.
I had to write the obituary, a small blurb for the pamphlet and put together photo’s and a list of music for a DVD, which was a free offer. Gee, thanks for the 6 hours of staring at my dead brother and cropping and scanning photo’s. But he has a killer playlist.
I don’t know how long until I write here again. I have a short story to write, which will take some time. Baby steps towards my novel. I’ve taken some courses on writing, which have helped tremendously. Did all this over the past three weeks. Over achieving.
I’m not gonna end this with a goodbye. Instead, I’ll end it with a quote.
“My heart has joined the thousands, for my friend stopped running today.” – Richard Adams, Watership Down.