Leave A Mark
I picked up my youngest brother's ashes today.
And for the first time since receiving the call from my mother that informed me of his passing nine days ago, I finally realized that I will never, ever see my little brother again. I'll never get to give him a hug again, never get to hear him respond with "Hey there, Medium-Sized Bear." after I greet him with his childhood nickname. I'll never get to see his over-dramatized look of shock and surprise when his nieces all run at him, screaming "Uncle Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuce!!!"
I'll never get another momentary conversation about grace and forgiveness and frustration. I'll never get to hold my muscular and built athletic brother as he tells me about the shit that he's going through. I'll never get another random call where he just wants to ask advice from his big sister (which had only started happening in the last year or so). I'll never get those moments again.
My brother has been physically reduced to a velvet bag of ashes, eight tiny urns that can fit into the palm of my hand, and three necklaces for my mother, my sister, and me. My brother, who was known for his ability to perform acrobatic stunts on the back of a cantering horse, will become part of the earth to catch those that will fall.
There are times when I get angry at him, when I want to scream and yell and agonize, but my vocal cords don't quite want to cooperate. There are times when I am thankful that my three angel children and my sister-in-law's angel child all have their uncle and their great-grandma to help them watch over us, and there are moments when I am so at peace that I couldn't imagine being angry at him. But that's not the way grief works.
Yesterday, the first day that everything had quieted down after the last house guest left, after the crisis had been diverted and taken care of, after realizing that it was okay to just sit and be still in my own grief, a friend came over. And we had wine, and laughed, and drew on the sidewalk in front of my home. The very last thing I used the chalk for was to write was for my brother.
WE ALL LEAVE A MARK ON THE WORLD SOMEHOW
At nineteen years old, my brother had impacted more people than I had ever imagined possible. And at nineteen, he made me want to be a more strong willed person, to stand up and use my voice in ways I had never imagined possible. Even now, he makes me want to be bigger. Better. To be as impressive in my life as he was in his. And while he won't be here to witness it in person, that is part of his legacy. That is his mark.
And for the first time since receiving the call from my mother that informed me of his passing nine days ago, I finally realized that I will never, ever see my little brother again. I'll never get to give him a hug again, never get to hear him respond with "Hey there, Medium-Sized Bear." after I greet him with his childhood nickname. I'll never get to see his over-dramatized look of shock and surprise when his nieces all run at him, screaming "Uncle Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuce!!!"
I'll never get another momentary conversation about grace and forgiveness and frustration. I'll never get to hold my muscular and built athletic brother as he tells me about the shit that he's going through. I'll never get another random call where he just wants to ask advice from his big sister (which had only started happening in the last year or so). I'll never get those moments again.
My brother has been physically reduced to a velvet bag of ashes, eight tiny urns that can fit into the palm of my hand, and three necklaces for my mother, my sister, and me. My brother, who was known for his ability to perform acrobatic stunts on the back of a cantering horse, will become part of the earth to catch those that will fall.
There are times when I get angry at him, when I want to scream and yell and agonize, but my vocal cords don't quite want to cooperate. There are times when I am thankful that my three angel children and my sister-in-law's angel child all have their uncle and their great-grandma to help them watch over us, and there are moments when I am so at peace that I couldn't imagine being angry at him. But that's not the way grief works.
Yesterday, the first day that everything had quieted down after the last house guest left, after the crisis had been diverted and taken care of, after realizing that it was okay to just sit and be still in my own grief, a friend came over. And we had wine, and laughed, and drew on the sidewalk in front of my home. The very last thing I used the chalk for was to write was for my brother.
WE ALL LEAVE A MARK ON THE WORLD SOMEHOW
At nineteen years old, my brother had impacted more people than I had ever imagined possible. And at nineteen, he made me want to be a more strong willed person, to stand up and use my voice in ways I had never imagined possible. Even now, he makes me want to be bigger. Better. To be as impressive in my life as he was in his. And while he won't be here to witness it in person, that is part of his legacy. That is his mark.
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