Charley's smile comes to mind before the rest of his face does. His well-defined eyebrows follow in close second with his almond-shaped, starry eyes placed precisely below and his deep dimples in third place. When Charley smiles, so does his whole body. Have you experienced this type of presence? Where you're always met, even upon a first introduction, with a firm handshake, a genuine interest and the sight of someone whom you JUST KNOW is amazing and impactful?
I think back on all the stories and experiences he shared with me and how every story was spoken with such glory and sincere interest. Just by speaking and listening to his tone, I always felt like I was learning great lessons and insight. And his laughter...boy...could he laugh with his whole soul. Just imaging him laughing makes me smile.
And behind this wondrous soul lies a family of four more individuals who continue to remain devastated and at a loss. We are a family of Mom, Dad, Sister, Niece/Goddaughter and myself who try to live without his physical presence but refer to him as naturally as his memories flow. Everything is "Oh, Charley does that" or "Charley would say...or do....or be....". We keep him alive. And we all do so with love in our thoughts and mercy at our hands. Love gracefully falls from our minds, down our faces in the form of pain and tears, finds its way down our chins and onto our chests where we're tugged and pulled by the reality that our favorite person, is no longer here with us. My heart hurts beyond what words can convey. And I try and try and try. But the thought of living the rest of my life without my Charley is unbearable. Who is going to love me like he does? Who is going to reassure me and teach me and guide me and discipline me and comfort me and nurture me and tell me I'm his everything?
In the beginning I was afraid because I could no longer touch him. I can picture the pores on his face, his moles, his long skinny fingers, the hairs on his arms, him blinking, the bruises on his toes from running a lot...so much so that he's still very real to me. I can smell his breath, still. He is my constant, my daily, from the first day of my life my brother never left my side. And I can tell you, he is still here with me. He is.
For me, though, my grief has created so many insecurities. I feel like a lost girl running about an empty flatland of dead grass, compressed dirt and no sunshine. I feel worthless without him and unsafe in this new world. Its amazing to me how much he impacts MY life.
My parents, are parents. I look at them and their faces and cannot imagine how they feel losing their only son and eldest child to a far-fetched emotion. How they wish they could have swept him in their arms and rocked him into a safe place. Mom plays strong matriarch even though I urge her to release and feel her pain. And she is angry in her every right. I applaud her commitment to that anger because she deserves to fight for her son and be fiercely hateful at the trigger that callously pushed him over. Dad is stoic, quiet and silently grieves. He's the man who doesn't say much but the sad droop in his shoulders and the weight he drags behind him very clearly shows me that he's in too much pain to say anything. He can't even formulate a sound to express his anguish. Sister is just now coming around to his loss. She kept quiet for over two months and said nothing but isolated herself within the walls of remorse and speechlessness. Sometimes I look at her and know that there's just two of us left. Just two girls and no boy. So effen incomplete. And Niece...oh Mia. She's the guiding force in our empty unit. She makes us laugh, cry, and reach for the remaining life we all dread to live. Without her, we'd be lifeless people moving about each other as short-circuited robots.
Thank God for family. Thank God my brother has us as his solid foundation. Thank God for him.
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