Placing Grief In A Corner

Grief is a passenger that travels with me everywhere. Whether I willingly bring grief along or grief positions itself in my back pocket, I am aware that it looms over me, around me, next to me as I sift through my daily affairs and thoughts. It's a given: I'm heavy hearted and lost within my own life…trying to identify a second, just ONE second of serenity. Serenity, on the other hand is a frequent stranger who I sometimes see on the street but it's never more than a glance. She comes and goes but never stays for very long. I only know her by name but haven't spent enough quality time with serenity to reap the root of her benefits. And so, as you see, I have company all the time.

I admit that I'm not as energetic as I was five months ago, let alone is my attention span longer than I'd like. Sometimes I'm fully engaged in a conversation only to taper off allowing myself to absent-mindedly wander and other times I'm not listening at all. My senses are out of whack. I can't read for very long, can't sing for very long, can't sit down and watch TV for more than a few minutes at a time. Any form of entertainment has to be taken in doses…probably because I'm not interested in entertainment. But I am interested in association and relevancy. Anything and everything and anyone that is closely related to my brother, I want to know, I want to hear about it, I want to smile about him. I've met so many of my brother's friends who love and adore him and cherish and carry him and his memory. Most can't relate to the depth of my loss, but they feel and experience his loss nonetheless. They love him. Honor him. Embrace their memories with him. One of his friends experienced a similar loss as mine and said to me, "Do you feel like because you're experiencing such a void, such a hole in your heart that all other pain is irrelevant? Do you feel stronger and is your threshold higher? That's because you're building character. Sitting here with me shows me that your character is already stronger". I felt as though I were speaking to myself. He was able to convert my own thoughts into words because I haven't known how (shocking, I know). He also said to me, which expressed sincere love, "When I think of Carlos, I don't think of him taking his life. Or dying in a car accident. Or from health. I just know that he's gone. It doesn't matter how he died, what matters is how he lived. And he LIVED!". I wanted to throw my arms around him and seep my thankful emotions into his own. He understands. He encouraged me to live. To celebrate Charley.
I was driving to work yesterday morning and I thought to myself I want to live. I want to honor his life. I want to be happy. There's so much to live with my Mia and for Charley… and for myself. 

My daughter rolled into the age of two this week. I told her everyday for a week that her birthday was coming up and that she was going to go from one to two overnight. I purchased a cake for her, littered the house with balloons and hastily tied her hair into two tiny pigtails. In hindsight, I was mentally distracted all day. Kept myself busy with errands as I crossed off the To-Do items and focused on nothing but Mia and her happiness. She played in the backyard with a family friend while I got the house together and cleaned. She was oblivious to what the day signified and it brought me joy to witness her smile and love without a care in her world. People showed up showing all their teeth and with gifts in hands. Everyone looked so happy to be at our home and to celebrate Mia. I looked around and admired the admiration for Mia. She. is. SO. loved. I placed myself in a bubble and did my best to keep myself together-don't talk about Charley. This is about Mia. This is about Mia- while I tended to the kids, chatted it up with adults and tried to finish a glass of wine. Cake time. The dreaded cake time.

Last year we also celebrated Mia's First Birthday at Charley's house with a big party in the backyard. As we sang Happy Birthday to Mia, I looked up and met eyes with Charley who beamed at me and looked so indescribably happy for me. It's as though the crowd was parted exactly right so that we could share that moment. THAT moment is superimposed in my mind as it was while we sang Happy Birthday once again over candles for Mia's second birthday. She had my undivided attention as I sweetly sang to my chiquis and consciously kept my eyes on her- I feared that if I looked up and didn't see Charley, I would break and fall apart and ruin Mia's moment. So I pretended Charley was standing in the back, behind the crowd, floating in an air of happiness and pride. Exhale. Cut the cake. Check. Open the presents. Check. Give Mia a bath. Check. Put her to sleep. Check. Pray. Thank you for visiting Mia on her birthday, Charley. Thank you. And then I finally cried. Cried in the dark as my sobs played a tune that complimented Mia's exhausted snores. I reached for Mia's face and ran my hands over her soft skin and thanked Charley again. Thank you, thank you for your life. You're the best surprise gift I could ever ask for. 

Rewind. Play. Pause. Stop. Rewind.

Living in the past is never a good idea, right? What if living in the past helps to heal and desperately hold onto a life that no longer exists? Is that okay? I say that it is. I'm grieving a life that I will never see again and never touch the arm of a man whose strength was reflected in his words and actions. There have been a few times that I dream of my brother and I KNOW that his soul is visiting mine. I have asked him questions he has responded to. At first I didn't want to share these dreams with anyone because I was afraid that if I shared, he wouldn't return. And he did though he hasn't in some weeks now. I have even heard him speak to me in my heart- not with the sound of his voice, but with words he's gently caressing me with. I KNOW it's him because I don't speak those words to myself (even when I'm having imaginary conversations with him). I want everyone to know that the souls of passed loved ones do exist. Where would Charley go otherwise? I don't believe he hangs around me all day- that would be a snooze fest- but he does come and go. His soul is such a driving force and of course God has put him to work!

I press rewind quite often in my life of lives. I envision myself as a child running after Charley on his bike while he looks back and laughs at me with that larger-than-air laugh he has. I close my eyes and see him dancing with me when I was 19 years old at Jamie Fox's birthday party- he's swinging his arms and wearing burgundy as am I. I reach for his embrace all the time as I tearily finger his clothes and picture the days he wore each shirt. When I had to go through his closet to transfer them out so my stuff could replace his, the chore took me all day. Not because he has that much stuff, but because I took so many moments to sit with a shirt and cry, to hold a shirt curled up on the floor, to lay with his shirt and act as though he's laying next to me, to fold each shirt and run my hands over them knowing he will never wear these shirts again. Organizing my brother's daily wear into boxes, struck me with such a force and such a reality. Why am I here at his house? Oh, it's because he's dead. Why am I organizing his clothes? Oh, it's because he's gone. Why am I reserving his bathroom necessities into a cabinet of its own? Oh, it's because he's coming back and he'll need them. 

I hit play during moments of business and when I'm going about life as though Charley is still here. When I'm driving his truck to and from the gym, the beach or work, it's only because I'm borrowing it. In fact, his back seat is still littered with his dirty workout clothes. Each shirt and hoodie is perfumed with his dry sweat. Each cap smells of his hair and the long workout he had. I. will. not. touch. them. I am respecting his space and belongings. I'm also dancing along to play when I'm with my Mia. We play and laugh and go about her life. Just her life. I include her Nino in our conversations and she will sometimes engage in her own conversation with him. I have watched my daughter play or talk with him. I have listened to her tell me she was with him or he was here. Just today during her gymnastics class and on the ride home, she announced Nino was "jumping" with her. Sigh. She's not at an age where she's making up stuff just yet. I'm envious. I want my brother to appear to me. I press play when I don't even know I'm living and I'll catch myself living in the moment. I'm strange in such a way that I will pause just to tell myself I'm playing. I really do that. And then I go back to playing, but not before quickly hitting rewind to snag a mental memory of Charley.

When do I stop? When I have crying episodes an I'm consumed by nothing else besides the undeniable pain of never seeing my brother again. Last night while I waited in the car for food, I looked into an El Pollo Loco and saw my brother. He has a cap on, a causal T-shirt and his ears are sticking out from each side of the cap. He's looking down with his back to me. I held my breath as my heart skipped and my eyes widened. I couldn't even move because I wanted to make sure it was in fact Charley. Then he turned around with his order in hand and I sat straighter and peered. I rubbed my eyes. I reflexively reached for the car door to open it…then he lifted his face. It wasn't Charley. My entire body slumped back and my soul shook. I thought I saw my brother in the flesh. Alive. Tears rolled down my face and I shook my head. Stupid, stupid Yolie. I exhaled and loudly whispered his name. To think that I saw Charley alive fucked me up. I was hopeful and rejected in the same instance. I was slapped with reality and disappointed. What I saw defied reason. So this is what wishful thinking feels like.  Then I hit rewind and completely surrendered to the idea that it is Charley sitting at a fast-food joint munching on a burrito. He is sitting within reach and I am watching his chomp on food he would never eat. I imagined him smiling and shaking his head. Rewind hurt…and it comforted me.

Sometimes the Good Guys Don't Win

My Most Favorite Brother,

I suppose I tell myself that five months is ONLY five months because as long as I keep your vanished presence to numbers I can count on both hands, then it only means you haven't been gone long and you'll return. Yes, I refuse to believe you're gone. I do not wish, hope, or try to accept your loss. There's absolutely no grain in my being that will justify why you took your life and the level of pain and fright you were in. I will never know your pain (even if I try to imagine it), but I want you to know again and again and for always that I understand. I understand your thoughts were jumbled and cloudy. I know that your emotions flooded your logic. I feel in my heart that you were scared and wanted nothing more than to make the pain and despair just go away. And I'm sure you couldn't stand it. You tried, Charley. You fought hard and battled as long as you could possibly fight. With lack of sleep, your steps and movements became slower as did your ammunition. You're not a quitter! And you went out swinging with all the force left in your soul. And for that and who you are to your last second, I AM SO VERY PROUD OF YOU.

It's perfectly okay that you had suicidal thoughts. It's more than fine that you were broken and felt that you didn't want to alarm anyone so you said nothing. In fact, I applaud your strength and admire your tenacity. I must admit, I'm not surprised though. Of course you pushed. Of course you exhausted every option before ultimately exhausting yourself. I am not disappointed in you nor have I ever been. I love you love you love you love you more than words in every language and idiom can convey. When I say I carry you in my heart, I mean that I carry you in every thought I have, each emotion I feel, each decision I make, each sneeze, each exercise, every drop of sweat, in my smiles for Mia, in my hugs for Mom, Dad and Kay, in my text messages with our friends, in my future thoughts, in cleaning your home and making improvements, in touching your clothes and still, smelling your dirty clothes. You would believe that I bottled your favorite T-shirt into a jar, right? I did. Rolled up your dirty baby blue Spyder shirt into a tight ball and stuffed it into a place I can inhale every now and then. Gotta bottle that beautiful fragrance!

You. are. loved. and valued. I'm doing everything right by you, I know. If I didn't constantly post pictures of you all over Facebook and Instagram and (seldomly) log into your account to post in your first-person, who would honor you? Who would keep you alive? If I weren't making the effort to rub you in everyone's faces (as I promised since the week you passed), people wouldn't be publicly reminded. And I want to do that. I want to show everyone your gorgeous face and ensure that they don't file you away under "too painful" or "gone". People tell me, "Yolie, Charley never left. He's still here". I know that you're not always here. Your soul is….and I suppose I can say that our souls may be closer now than when you were alive. Still, I prefer you in your physical being. I clamor around for any indication that you never left. I torture myself with very vivid memories of you. I place them in my face and re-live them repeatedly. I move about my days forcing one thought into myself, "Your brother is gone. Charley is gone", as though I'm trying to desensitize reality. If I hear it enough then I will believe it.

Charley, thank you. Thank you for loving me as profoundly and deeply as you do. Thank you for your life-long attention and drive. I want to be just like you.

Love your sis,
Yolie

Truth: I Am A Stripper

Why don't more people look within themselves and reveal their true identities, who they want to be and who they want to shed? I'm more raw and naked than I have ever been. Who I was when my brother was alive and breathing is no longer the person I feel. I rarely look at myself in the mirror- my reflection is too painful. It hurts to look at ugly. I may wash my face and brush my teeth and apply makeup but I don't look at myself. I turn my eyes away in shame and guilt. I am ashamed of myself and who I've been. Most times, as I did today while moving about Waikiki beach, I block the world out as I move forward in my solace and very quiet life. My ears have turned the volume all the way down to a padded hummmmmmm.

My journey to the serene Hawaiian bubble has been mentally in the works for six months now. When I got on the plane and turbulence hit, I tucked myself into a ball and drowned out the sound of children crying, turned away from the passenger to my right clutching the armrests and told myself to control my breathing. God, if your plan is to take this plane down, please do it quickly. I'm scared and I'm afraid to leave Mia, but if this is what my destiny is, then I understand. It's okay because Charley is waiting. I felt calm as I prayed, which was strange to me, but it's because I've begun to put my fate into the hands that control my existence. I live each day wondering if it's my last. I get frustrated with time and impatient when I survive another day. This level of pain can't be good, it can't be sustainable. But I'm obviously wakening to another day- so I keep my eyes pried open.

As soon as I checked into my hotel and walked into my room, I dropped my luggage and nervously shoved my balcony door open while beads of sweat adorned the brim of my nose. I exhaled into the humid air as though I had been holding my breathe since turbulence shook me over six hours before. My hands clutched the railing as my bottom found a chair to steady myself. A crying episode ensued and I assured Charley I arrived. I'm here, Charley. I'm here. I made it. I'm so sorry I'm here. I'm so sorry I came now that you're gone and not when you so desperately needed to. Please forgive me. Please, please, please. Guilt and despair have stripped me to my core, down to my bones and have encouraged me to do nothing but admit who I hate, who I'm not and who I'm struggling to identify. Who am I? Who am I without my brother? It's both scary and exciting. Scary because this me is foreign. I don't recognize her face, her voice, her intentions and her motive. Exciting because losing Charley is awkwardly offering me a chance to start over with a clean slate. To be anyone I want to be and everything I've always dreamed of. Dreams do come true, you know. Look at my brother. At age four he told my Mom he wanted to be a Fireman so she bought him a Tonka Firetruck. He said he'd be courageous and charismatic. He said he'd be funny. And he became the man he is with his own hands, his words and his dreams. I'll never measure up, but I can follow suit. Even at 33, I am yanking away all that I've known to explore who I want to be when I grow up. For now though, I'm a stripper. A stripper of pain, confusion, lack of interest, lack of life and the drive to find myself and pray that Charley is proud of me...no matter how long I may take and where his loss leads me.

Mid-Grief Crisis

Pain is comforting. "Eventually" and "the process" are safe places to be and dwell. I like it here. In this place I am free to take my time with my grief and drag my feet as long I'd like. In this place I don't have to act normal to make others feel comfortable or act appropriately to prove that I'm on the mend and "better". I admit that I'm vulnerable and am more sensitive, but that doesn't mean everyone should walk on eggshells around me. And I'm gullible when it comes to anything that speaks to the afterlife. I read as much as I can on true-life experiences and purchase books to get some insight on how to communicate with my brother or how to know what the signs are when he comes around.
I listen to silence as though the quiet is going to make a sound and reach for me. I peer into darkness and look for a silouette or any unusual movement I wouldn't see when the blinds are drawn and the soft sun is beaming into our home. I twitch my nose in search of odors that are familiar to me like the smell of Charley's sweat. I use all my senses in hopes to capture a second with him, a second to validate his presence and reassure me that he hasn't left my side. Death, like all foreign experiences, leads to stress which will manifest and spill over like a soda pop being shaken one to many times. Last friday night was the worst anxiety attack I've experienced, except it was driven by panic and the flashbacks of denial. It was scary. A scary ten minutes that sucked by lungs dry and shook my nerves so badly I ached afterwards and put myself to bed so that my entire self could recover.

A month before my brother's last day, he and I wanted to take a last-minute trip to Hawaii. The rates and prices were understandably outrageous, but we didn't care- serenity was calling my brother and all I wanted was to lightly pack his heart and place it between the two of us. He was falling into bits with the hope of  a cure in sight, as I affectionately caught each piece of his being and cradled them in my own heart and hands. After a guilt trip of being an irresponsible parent, I didn't go and promised Charley we would get away within a couple of weeks. Those weeks came and went just as quickly as a lucky dodged bullet and my brother and I never made it to Hawaii. We only made it as far as the long-stretches of beach 2.5 miles from our home where we sat for hours, ran for miles, sweat ounces and shared conversations that have paved the direction I have begun to navigate. These deep-seeded conversations were intended to encourage and inspire me to live my life. Live my life the way my brother did- to the ultimate fullest.

Everyone is familiar with the overused, "Life is short", but one never knows the true significance of that staple until a life vanishes and all that's left are memories and regrets. I will not continue to live my life in motion as I wake up to and robotically lay my head down to; I will live my life with breath, ease and a spark that surrounds my soul with light and love. So, for Charley and because of Charley, I am more awake now than I've ever been. Sadness and a very warm darkness resonate on my surface, but life is also calling me.

Tomorrow I leave for Hawaii, and it's a solo trip. My intentions are clear: sleep, rest, read, write, meditate and be with my brother. Just be. Spend time with him and my thoughts. Give myself the attention and nourishment I deserve. Do anything I want without a reachable care. Fulfill the last-minute trip I am destined to take with Charley. Mourn. Cry. Scream into the warm Aloha waters and float in a sea of sun. Stare into the sunset while I imagine my brother sitting next to me and holding my hand. Pretend I have my arms around him as he sinks into my flesh and inhales unconditional love. Explore some clarity and try to forgive myself for not saving his life. Be Charley's sister. Love myself more than I ever have. Pray for him more than I pray for myself. Channel Charley and all that he wants for me. And...hopefully, hopefully come back a few pounds grief-lighter than I did when I landed. And if I don't, well, he still loves me.

Vomit of the Mouth: Friends

I've said it before and I'll say it again: grief lasts so much longer than sympathy. Where are the people he was so selfless with and compassionate for? Where are the "brothers" who claim to be a fire community but really just used Charley's passing as PR? Where is his captain who lifted me off the front lawn and held me? Where are his social, smiling, pat-on-the-back beach goers who competed in events together? Listen, I completely understand that the majority of people move forward and may think, "Carlos is gone. Life goes on. I'm going to live with memories of him and be thankful for knowing him". I get that. I get that there is nothing to do but tuck it away and go. I get that most people don't want to revisit his loss so they stay away. But it's now as though my brother's passing is such an awkward elephant in the room. His own friends don't bring him up, don't reach out, don't say anything. But guess what? I want to hear about him, I want to talk about him, I want to know- I want to be reassured- that he is missed. Even if it's a very simple, " I miss Carlos. I'm so glad you're here". Or even just a hug. Sometimes hugs are better than no words at all. It's only been five months. FIVE. Now I completely understand why he told me that he was so disappointed in his friends, and could see who his real friends were. As do I.

People whom I thought were my friends, aren't at all anymore. And people who I never thought were, are now my closest, tangible, fearless support. I'm smart enough to know that people deal with grief differently or simply don't deal at all. But let me tell you something, if you ever find yourself on my end of the stick, you will understand how much you'll want support, love and presence. On my left hand I can count the number of Charley's friends who are unbelievably loving friends of his-not because they feel obligated to support my family, but because they truly love him and want to remain close to him. On my right hand are five of my own friends whom I can lean on, cry with, vent, love with, sort with, and just be. And if I link my thumbs, I can see how his and mine have meshed into one-just like his soul synced with mine.

Life hurts. But loss hurts even more. Death is the hardest "removal" from our cycle. Friends come and go, cars and jobs are replaceable, clothes are grown in and out of, experiences either set us back or help us spurt...but death? Death throws all of you into the air and doesn't care how broken you are when you land. When Charley was born, the world was blessed. And when he died, the world changed forever. MY world. If I could change places with him to prevent the intensity of his loss, I would. I look at my own life and see nothing. No value, no worth, no stamp of liveliness or legacy. What have I done and accomplished so that my daughter can aspire to be? Charley was my compliment. He was supposed to show Mia all the things I'm not, be the man I'm not, be her Hero and teach her everything I don't know. I was counting on him to be her greatest friend. And now she's stuck with me. Just me. Sure, I was dependent on him, but it's because he's my favorite person. I was never surprised with his accomplishments and dreams, I was simply always impressed. Continually.
During my therapy session last week I noted to the doc that I'm surprised I didn't marry my brother to which she replied, "So am I but it's because you had your brother. There was no need to seek a spouse like him". There will never be another Charley. No matter how much I try to mesh a bunch of people together---snag a corner of my Dad's handy hands, a sliver of humor from Alex, good-natured personality from Orin, a drop of James' compassion, a fistful of Hugo's positivity, an armful of Guillermo's embrace, and Anthony's weird wit....I still won't have Charley, nor will seek him out. Everyone I know and meet is inadequate and won't measure up. So I'm trying. I'm trying with all I have to keep him alive so that he never leaves me.

"It's Nice to Be Seen"

My faith in God has been a struggle ever since I was an inquisitive kid who insisted on proof, logic and tangibility. Everytime my family was faced with tragedy, turmoil, confusion, I questioned how our God, our higher power, could look on and do nothing.
Tragedy struck us when I was a toddler still, my brother was five years old, and my mom was a young twenty-something conjuring up all her strength to nurture and take care of my father's failing health. My brother Charley, was wise enough in age to witness the sorrow my mom was experiencing, my father's rapid exit and our abandonment. Death was coming at a speed none of us could slow down and with a force no one could stop. When Meningitis finally took hold of my father's last words, he prepped my mom before his last brain surgery, "Be strong. Don't cry. Don't let anyone ever walk all over you. You have two kids to raise. Find a good man and marry him. Be outspoken and speak up for yourself. Don't waste money on flowers for my grave".

He was still warm when she arrived at the hospital. The room was quiet with the soundless beeping of the machines, she was wet from the hard drops of rainfall, and my father was gone. And even though they both knew he was going to die, she went into shock. It took her three weeks to finally release and cry out all her loneliness and loss. She was alone with two kids to raise and fend for herself. That very night was the same night Charley became a little, grownup man when his two five-year-old legs walked into her room, reached for her in the dark and said, "It's alright, Mom. I'll take care of you". I cry now even as I type this because Charley was compassionate and strong his entire life. I cry still, thinking of the thoughts my Mom may have had staring into her little boy's eyes and wondering how he grew up so quickly and how sad and heavy it made her heart to know he felt the need to fill his father's shoes. I cry now because we would have never, ever thought that little boy would die himself, 31 years later…not from inflammation of the brain as our father experienced, but from a chemical imbalance in his brain. How could God allow this to happen to two valuable, empowering men? How could God remove a loving husband and father AND his son from my mom? How could God allow me to feel as though I've been abandoned?

Charley and I stopped going to church when we both realized it bore us. We couldn't stop the long yawns, the long bathroom breaks and the insistent inquiries that all we did was stand, sit and kneel. Heck, we couldn't even speak to that morning's sermon, let alone did we care. We did our First Communions and Confirmations, but it never went beyond that. We prayed and remained true to our spirits and continued to question God by not speaking to him. So when the idea of baptizing my daughter came up earlier last year, Charley and I were in agreement that we would be hypocrites to do that; to lower her head into holy water and swear to be active Catholics was a lie we would tell the church and ourselves. Still, Charley would be her Padrino (Godfather) and Mia would lovingly call him by the name of "Nino". She learned the word very quickly and played with the sounds as it tickled the roof of her mouth and Charley's soft spot.
By August of 2012, Charley had begun to attend mid-mass. "It's a small group, not crowded and it's only 30 minutes!" he excitedly shared. I added that I should attend with him…but I never did. A few weeks later he proclaimed that he had accepted God into his heart. "My faith has been shaky and I've never been religious, but I feel peaceful. It's a kind of peace I've never felt before. And I'm excited."
I encouraged his new found faith and hoped that God would see him through his dark times.

I began attending mass two months after Charley passed away when I discovered that the Reverend who showed up That Day to console us as part of the crisis team, was also easily accessible at a nearby church by the beach. My mid-week mass embraces a small group of devout followers who love, share and provide peace to one another. Last week I spoke to God as I took the Communion, "Lord, please forgive me for not saving my brother, your son". I cried as I communicated this sentiment and stood silently to be still with my thoughts. And then God answered, "I did". My eyes snapped open as though someone whispered into me. I knew then, that I heard Him, in my heart. God saved my brother. I know that God was waiting for Charley with open arms, but I had no idea that it was God who saved him.
I returned to my seat and prayed so very hard and thanked Him for being present with me to ease my guilt a bit. Just as mass ended and all 15 of us exchanged peace, an adorable older gentleman walked over to me, "Peace be with you, my dear". I nodded and hugged him back. Then he said, "It's nice to be seen, isn't it?" (Big sigh). Yes, yes it is. 

When There's A Legacy, There Is Love

For a man who was anything but unmemorable, there are hundreds of ways to honor him and continue his legacy. It's true- my brother lives on in me. Look to me for a story or a glimpse into his eyes and mannerisms. Ask me about him and I'll tell you what you'd like to hear. Hold me and pretend you're actually holding him (weirdly enough, he and I smell similarly). Don't be afraid to ask about the loss of a loved one, because chances are the grieving end wants to talk about the loss. Heck, I do. Almost 5 months in and I feel like he's not being spoken about much and people would rather just live in the moments and celebrate life. Which is completely fine…but let's take yesterday's uplifting event for example.

My brother had his own traditions that he would see through with nothing but the pure intention of living life and living it up. The man loved a social atmosphere, he loved to make a fool of himself, and he loved his athletic events. Every Superbowl Sunday, he would dress up in costume with a group of his friends to run a yearly 5K in Redondo Beach. I remember the costumes, dropping my parents off around 7am and hearing about the event later that day. Last year he and his team were dressed as Mr. Trunks and the Nutty Bunch, 2011 they were dressed as The Funky Banana and the Monkey Bunch, and this year we dressed as (I took his place), The Flying Elvii.

I happily ran in his place and felt so nostalgic for him, watching his friends dance and act silly while they ran…and I ran behind them because I simply didn't feel like I was part of the group. I almost felt like I was Charley, watching them while he basked in their joy. But could easily see why they were all friends because he would easily act just as goofy and funny. It was then that I realized I would continue his yearly tradition of running the 5K in costume, but starting next year, I would run in our own group with our own friends who wish to support me and Charley.

Out of the group of people on the team, ONE person brought him up and asked me how I was doing and how much he appreciated my brother. "He was always such a good friend to me and I am just so happy that I even knew him at all. He was always so upbeat and positive". I felt the comfort in his voice and heard the yearning as well. Although the run was a yearly run with the intent to have fun, it was also (at least for me and my family) to keep Charley alive and fulfill an activity he did so effortlessly. So I did want to hear about him, but saw that no one wanted to talk about him---maybe it was to not ruin what they had effortlessly, naturally created and bringing Carlos up may dampen the mood. So, you see, because I personally carry my brother in my being, I will talk about him and will want to. It hasn't even been 5 months yet…how could people assume we're okay by now or past all the grief and be okay with not talking about him? So silly.

Here's the obvious truth: I will never stop honoring him. Whether it's for the public, blasted on social media platforms or in the quietness of my heart, Charley lives and he is alive. He is a man who is worth  selfless effort and acknowledgment. The runs, the competitions, the philanthropic work, mentoring others and smiling, smiling, loving. I will continue to stand next to my brother. He will never let me fall.