WritingTheWrong
11-08-2009, 10:28 PM
How I got myself dressed this morning, I’ll never know. Somehow, though, I took a shower and put on pajamas (I’m doing things backwards. I slept in my clothes last night) and somewhere down the line I ended up covered in a blanket, curled up on my parents’ bed on Daddy’s side. Then I was on the couch, book beside me, writing some ridiculous statement about discipline for my sociology class that I half believe. Now, I’m dressed. I don’t know how though. I do know why. She needs me and I’ve got to get myself together, so I’ve got on my jeans and a thermal even though it’s nearly 75 degrees outside. I’m just so cold. I keep crying and she doesn’t need me to cry she needs to lie in my lap or sit across the room from me and bite the inside of her cheek knowing that I’m not going anywhere. Still, no matter how hard I try, the tears keep meeting under my chin and being absorbed by the cloth of my thermal.
Yesterday seems so far away, the smiles and laughter and accomplishment. I smiled and shook hands with people I didn’t really know. I was hugged by people I’d never even touched before. It seems today will be the same routine with different emotions. Her family will want to shake my hand. I will have to offer a sympathetic smile and hide the fact that I’m extremely hurt by this too because I’m not blood. I only met him six years ago. I missed his first step and his seventh birthday. I was there, though, for his fifteenth when we went to R.J. Gators and silly stringed him when they brought out the cake. I was there when the music played from the television in the living room and the kitchen floor was our disco. I was there for hundreds, maybe thousands, of dinners, breakfasts and lunches. I was there for six Christmases and six thanksgivings and six New Years and St. Patrick’s Days. I was there for countless basketball games. I remember the away ones mostly because he would dress up. I remember the day he had on the blue dress shirt and black slacks. He looked so grown up, not just because he was tall but because he was wearing his glasses for the first time. He smiled back when I smiled at him and then kind of shuffled down the hall to his room to change.
Every time I speak, my voice quivers. Every time I blink, my eyes are full of tears. Every time I see Carolina Blue I think of red smeared across it. I don’t know for sure if it was messy at all but I just imagine his UNC clad room covered with his blood and it scares me. When I think of this I also think of him lying on an autopsy table with some no-named person with sallow skin poking him not thinking about the fact that he was somebody’s son and somebody’s little brother. My best friend’s little brother. My little brother. Just thinking about what he did and how horrible it was. And maybe they’ll go home tonight and tell their husband or their wife about this kid they dissected today who very well could’ve been somebody who goes to their child’s school or their church. But they most definitely won’t think about his family though they will pretend to. They will only think about how it affected them and they most certainly won’t think about me, his big sister’s best friend who can’t stop crying for him and doesn’t know how she got dressed this morning.
As I think about this, I also think about the fact that he will never have to get dressed again. He will never have to brush his teeth or comb his hair anymore. And we, the rest of us, will have to get up in the morning, shower and dress and brush our teeth. Our rooms will look the same. The same books will be in our lockers. The bells will ring at the same time. The faces of our classmates and coworkers will be the same. But he will still be gone. The hole will still be remnant and hopefully it will eventually shrink. I realize that’s what she needs me for, what I need her for; why I have to go now and shake hands and smile sympathetically though this hurts me too. I will be pulling the hole in her chest closed centimeter by centimeter and in turn she will be pulling mine.
I walk outside, into the 75 degree weather and shiver in my jeans and thermal. When we pull up the house, there are so many cars that we have to park across the street. She is standing barefoot on the porch before I even get out of the car. I rush to her and hug her tight. Her tears sink into my shoulder and my tears sink into hers. Through my blurred vision I see her mother step outside. Mom. I free myself from her grasp and wrap my arms around Mom’s neck. We all tried. She says. I love you. We tried. We did try. I’m still trying. When people ask me how I feel, I tell them I’m trying. Trying to remember to smile and not to cry. Trying to remember that they’ve had days to cry and I’m late so my sorrow only adds to theirs. Trying to remember that I can’t stop trying now because there will be years and years of trying to come. Tomorrow I will have to get dressed and he will not. Tomorrow I will have to try and he will not. He’s at peace now. Mom says. Now we will have to make peace with that.
I proofread the obituary for her. There is one mistake. The date is wrong. We change it, call the newspaper and change it. Then she asks something of me that I want to refuse but I know I can’t. Will you sing at the memorial? I nod, sure I will. I’ve had a song in my head all day anyways.
He gives beauty for ashes, strength for fear, gladness for mourning and peace for despair. Now we will have to make peace with that.
Yesterday seems so far away, the smiles and laughter and accomplishment. I smiled and shook hands with people I didn’t really know. I was hugged by people I’d never even touched before. It seems today will be the same routine with different emotions. Her family will want to shake my hand. I will have to offer a sympathetic smile and hide the fact that I’m extremely hurt by this too because I’m not blood. I only met him six years ago. I missed his first step and his seventh birthday. I was there, though, for his fifteenth when we went to R.J. Gators and silly stringed him when they brought out the cake. I was there when the music played from the television in the living room and the kitchen floor was our disco. I was there for hundreds, maybe thousands, of dinners, breakfasts and lunches. I was there for six Christmases and six thanksgivings and six New Years and St. Patrick’s Days. I was there for countless basketball games. I remember the away ones mostly because he would dress up. I remember the day he had on the blue dress shirt and black slacks. He looked so grown up, not just because he was tall but because he was wearing his glasses for the first time. He smiled back when I smiled at him and then kind of shuffled down the hall to his room to change.
Every time I speak, my voice quivers. Every time I blink, my eyes are full of tears. Every time I see Carolina Blue I think of red smeared across it. I don’t know for sure if it was messy at all but I just imagine his UNC clad room covered with his blood and it scares me. When I think of this I also think of him lying on an autopsy table with some no-named person with sallow skin poking him not thinking about the fact that he was somebody’s son and somebody’s little brother. My best friend’s little brother. My little brother. Just thinking about what he did and how horrible it was. And maybe they’ll go home tonight and tell their husband or their wife about this kid they dissected today who very well could’ve been somebody who goes to their child’s school or their church. But they most definitely won’t think about his family though they will pretend to. They will only think about how it affected them and they most certainly won’t think about me, his big sister’s best friend who can’t stop crying for him and doesn’t know how she got dressed this morning.
As I think about this, I also think about the fact that he will never have to get dressed again. He will never have to brush his teeth or comb his hair anymore. And we, the rest of us, will have to get up in the morning, shower and dress and brush our teeth. Our rooms will look the same. The same books will be in our lockers. The bells will ring at the same time. The faces of our classmates and coworkers will be the same. But he will still be gone. The hole will still be remnant and hopefully it will eventually shrink. I realize that’s what she needs me for, what I need her for; why I have to go now and shake hands and smile sympathetically though this hurts me too. I will be pulling the hole in her chest closed centimeter by centimeter and in turn she will be pulling mine.
I walk outside, into the 75 degree weather and shiver in my jeans and thermal. When we pull up the house, there are so many cars that we have to park across the street. She is standing barefoot on the porch before I even get out of the car. I rush to her and hug her tight. Her tears sink into my shoulder and my tears sink into hers. Through my blurred vision I see her mother step outside. Mom. I free myself from her grasp and wrap my arms around Mom’s neck. We all tried. She says. I love you. We tried. We did try. I’m still trying. When people ask me how I feel, I tell them I’m trying. Trying to remember to smile and not to cry. Trying to remember that they’ve had days to cry and I’m late so my sorrow only adds to theirs. Trying to remember that I can’t stop trying now because there will be years and years of trying to come. Tomorrow I will have to get dressed and he will not. Tomorrow I will have to try and he will not. He’s at peace now. Mom says. Now we will have to make peace with that.
I proofread the obituary for her. There is one mistake. The date is wrong. We change it, call the newspaper and change it. Then she asks something of me that I want to refuse but I know I can’t. Will you sing at the memorial? I nod, sure I will. I’ve had a song in my head all day anyways.
He gives beauty for ashes, strength for fear, gladness for mourning and peace for despair. Now we will have to make peace with that.