The world moves forward but I feel stuck.
I can’t call my aunts or my sister or cousins to share the grief, to encourage or be encouraged. I often feel alone with this. I feel broken. I’ve vomited out my heart. I no longer have one.
I tread waters of criticism when I say I can think of a hundred people who should take his place in a coffin. I have a hard time thinking that he’s in a box decaying. My brother!!!! My boy is decaying!!! Really? Somewhere I read about a woman blogger whose mother died. She talked about how undignified death is. I can’t remember which blogger it was, but she talked about how her mother’s autopsy discussed her in ounces and pounds. To think there was an autopsy done on my boy is mentally terrifying. You cut up my boy? You weighed him like a pound of meat, sewed him up, put him on display, locked the lid then put dirt over it. You left him to the bugs. I’m mad that such barbarous acts were perpetrated against my loved one.
It’s confusing and huge. It weighs down my shoulders and makes my eye lids heavy. I slightly drift to the left and rock just a little, back and forth. This death, this self murder, this selfish act haunts with a force powerful enough to freeze me in my tracks.
Self murder, selfish act, but I understand. I know you searched for happiness. I know adventure and performance was your life. You sought after peace, chasing it wherever it lead you. You know what scares me? ** As a survivor of abuse, a woman fighting Lupus, a struggling artist with an artist’s personality, it seems fitting for my story to end with my suicide.
It’s funny how some of my hopes rested on him. I could brag about a performance of his or brag about his urban orchestra he started. I saw him visit all the countries where our family laid their future, the foundation of our heritage. The photos were spectacular. He last visited Spain then came back to the US and was dead shortly after that.
My family spent a lot of time in Spain, they loved it there. The photo of my brother in the cathedral is really beautiful but haunting. He stood facing the window, in the middle and shot a silhouette. He was facing light. Now I ask myself, was that the first sign missed?
I never got to ask about his inner child. I never got to sit down with him and ask about his wounds and how he’s healing them. I never had a heart to heart with him. Regrets, regrets…..lets not forget violence. I want to snatch him out of the grave alive and slap him around. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Did you seriously exit like that?
Did you think we’d be able to go on, that we could take a breath without it hurting?
Do you not love us?
What about us?
What are we supposed to do to reconcile this?
Did you think about it before you robbed us of you?
You had no right to rob us, no right at all.
Didn’t you know your death would break us?”
I’d hold him and I’d cry. Could my head possibly hang any lower? After anger I’d let in understanding because I get it….it’s just that I didn’t expect it. I took for granted that you’d be out there playing the violin professionally and making the audience cry with what you can do effortlessly.
I will bury you but not just yet. I will have your funeral, but not just yet. I will bury you as a violin filled with all the words I can put inside it and then I will let you go.
** I am not suicidal. The thought of my pitiful toiling ending in suicide isn’t new. It tells a lot about how I see myself, my sense of worth and purpose. It’s a sad, sad thought, but it is in no way a plan.
4:27pm EST May 26, 2017