Is it possible to love someone and when they die, we do as well? Then I ask, is it a worst fate to die in reality or figuratively , as dead is the only word strong enough to accurately depict the hollows of one’s heart after knowing true loss. For it is those of us that are forced to be both living without life and dying without death. For in the moment the one we have loved all our lives leaves we became shattered. The only comfort I am convinced I may ever know again is by breaking all the pieces of life that within me remain?
Shards of dreams, splinters of love, remnants of hope, and of unraveled threads of faith, all unrecognizable. For without my brother nothing appears to resemble its previous form.
For the morning I learned Joe was gone, I could no longer relate to another living person. I could not speak nor have compassion for those who didn’t sit as I sat, and even if they had known grief I judged that as well. Unable to relate to anyone or anything I had always known as my truth. So I identified only with the destruction, despair and devastation. I was safe within the disheveled life that had become my existence and I was constantly seeking new avenues in which I could perpetuate my time there, to avoid the inevitable.
To put away my sadness and let him go was an idea for too long I was simply unwilling to entertain. However, the risk of putting it back together, knowing it at anytime could once again break. That has been a fate for me worse than death.
I don’t profess to have any answers anymore to things I once knew or even wanted to learn, but I am certain another loss would be more than my heart could bear.
So I sit, content within, alongside and drowning in my sorrow, I relish the tears I still cry for him, For although gone now, they prove yes, yes, see, see he once was here!
I have refused to accept my brother’s death so rather I accepted and found my only comfort and connection to him in the massive pile of broken stagnate life . Heart-wrenching has become my identity and one I cannot let go of. Perhaps, it is the last one I will have in which he will still be a part of rather than a memory or picture in a frame.
So for three years I have sat, up alone almost every night. For endless hours I sit clutching on to my pile of pain. Sickly almost enjoying it more when the world is quiet and asleep dreaming of things I confess no longer matter to me and I can cry and scream and hurt without reveling my pain, and causing others to feel helpless for no one could fix this. No one but Joe.
One night I asked Joe just as the loneliness I craved began to take over after I had put the children to bed. I asked him why night had such an almost magical way about it. Able to amplify the deepest of our scars, Scars that in the sunshine we can not see but at night the pleasure of their pain becomes an almost secret longing. I purposed a foolish question out loud. Joe does there exist a secret agreement between the moon and death? Did they make a pact unknown to the living?
The moon promising some nights to stay hidden as if lost from the sky, giving death the ability to quietly, under the veil of night creep in through the window and rob from the world a soul. In my case a soul who’s equal I will never find again. Then once death has taken what he had no right touch, it would be the moon’s turn to take the stage. For the moon knows as best that inconsolable pain doesn’t not allow the grieving to sleep.
Rising with purpose directly over my house of sorrow. Shining so brightly, another reminder one in a sea of millions of what I once saw as something beautiful matters no more. For everything including the moon is but another way in which the world cruelly mocks me as it spins on and on. Forgetting or simply refusing to acknowledge my pain, I no longer care which. Yet every rotation ensures the moon will come once again to play its part.
Magnifying and illuminating the million prisms caused from the broken pieces of my life and my pain. Dancing and floating. Dancing without care or concern, all over my heap of hurt, that I have for so long refused to hurdle.
Mesmerized by the reflections of such carefree movement. Captivated I sit alone, and stare, I forget about the moon and death and the question I have asked. All I can do is sit. Sit and think…repeating over and over within my head, screams of the ache in my resentment… believing ….. I will never dance again.