Connecting the Dots

Last night I dreamt of my brother's funeral. I was wearing black- a color I didn't wear in real life- rain fell hard against the pavement, deep green leaves swayed with the wind and his casket shined with light and solace. I stood at the back of the outdoor ceremony and watched a plethora of umbrellas pop open as I allowed heavy drops shower me with sadness. I wiped my eyes and shook my head-no, this isn't happening. Then I woke up to wet eyes and a heaviness in my throat. Charley's soul stood in the bedroom and watched me cry. Acknowledging his presence encouraged my tears to stream faster as the nape of my neck began to heat up and my bosom heaved with bricks of panic. It's just a dream, my mind nurtured. It was just a dream. But Charley's presence said otherwise. Back to sleep I went hoping to wake up again and find that all of this is nothing but a slow-moving nightmare of a dream.

My brother has ex-girlfriends, ex-friends, distant colleagues, amazing friends, true brothers, positive experiences and things that were left in question. Or rather, conversations to be had. Whether he had them or I've spoken for him, I'm also working with a mental checklist of "errands" I'm executing for Charley to cleanse the life left behind and the space his soul now resides in. I want to create a "better" life for him, fix the unresolved relationships, iron out the kinks in people, blossom his house into a home, speak words for him that he may have never spoken, defend him and fight for his honor, be his bodyguard and shove the bullshit people out of our lives, severe ties with folks who are not worth our time or his, and above all, lay out this "improved" life so that I can beckon him back with, "Look Charley. It's fixed. All fixed. Even the things that didn't need fixing are better for you. See. Now, come back". This, in addtion to an infinity of reasons, is how much I love my brother. He's gone and yet I've taken the baton from his hand to ambitously run his race for him. Call me consumed, but also be quick to admire our bond.

I'm his foot soldier reaching out to people I know he deeply loved and others that are so far into his past that they are an afterthought-but I think about them. It's so important to me that they know I think of them and remind them how much my brother adores them. Suddenly, right now is about them. Charley isn't an openly sentimental guy for he is the guy who always joked and laughed and made others smile. But he is a tough, sensitive guy with support that was a tidal wave of love and hope. He can hope his way through and out of just about any situation. I know for a fact he hoped his way through his last night and came out on the other end still hoping and loving us all.
Throwing myself into the trenches and onto the wolves doesn't frighten me- it empowers me. I'm so far beyond aching that  sticks and stones don't break me and harsh words don't hurt-my threshold for pain is higher than I've ever felt and nonsense deflects off of me like a sharpened boomerang aiming for the fool who threw it. So some people don't want to talk about my brother, don't know what to say to me so they say nothing or (I imagine) can't talk about Carlos and suicide in the same sentence. I don't blame them- I'm still in disbelief. Not Charley. Not my brother. Not my better half. Life is lonely and I've become a bit withdrawn grieving his absence and wanting to resuscitate his darkest night to bring him back to light again.