When their heart is empty, don’t fill their glass.
If you ever decide to take 12 shots of whiskey, eat a package of Starburst first. That way, when you wake up in a puddle of your own vomit, it won’t smell so bad. I found this out the hard way, my life nearly ending on a night I can’t remember.
There was a dirty mattress on the floor of a run-down drug house, where me and three others tried to drown our pain in a bottle of cheap liquor. I don’t remember why I kept drinking. Yet somehow I can remember how many shots I had. Twelve. Is that even possible?
I woke up, face down in the front yard. My head was strategically placed over a hole to ensure that I didn’t choke. Looking back now, …
Long after Eric was gone, I still felt his presence so strongly, that it seemed he could walk into the room at any moment. He’d give his perfunctory wave, and simply say, “Hey.” As my own life developed, I’ve lost that sensation. Marriage and babies have a way of filling your heart and mind until old memories are crowded out. By writing about him, though, I’ve begun to get that sensation back. It gives me hope, but it’s an empty hope. I want so strongly to see him again, that I almost convince myself that somehow, some way, he will return.
I know this is absurd, but a heart has funny ways of playing tricks on your mind. In doing we web search of him today, I found this. His obituary. Beautifully …
Eric and I at Stonehenge. I was 15. This trip was awesome. I wasn’t annoyed at all when this picture was taken.
I saw his car turn around at the end of our parent’s long driveway. I have to admit I was annoyed. I’m not proud of that. I loved my big brother. I still do. But at that time in my life, at 16, just trying to be a teenager, he annoyed me. No, his disease annoyed me. I didn’t know how to handle his depression, his odd behavior, his lingering. He would just sit and stare for hours. Hours. Do you know how awkward that is? How much tension silent stillness can create in a house?
He turned around. Came back. He was coming to say goodbye, in his own way. A few weeks later, he …
He was real. And he was awesome. He was my brother.
I came across a box today. A box of memories. The box was dusty, purposefully hidden away in the forgotten corners of my mind. Instead of shoving it back where I found it, I sliced it open. The contents spilled out at my feet, and I was amazed at how much could fit in such a small box. Words, smells, emotions, textures, all begging to be felt, to be remembered.
He was in this box. Eric. My brother. I miss him. I miss him. Afraid I’ll soon no longer be able to conjure his face, his laugh, his mannerisms in my mind, I must unpack these boxes. I can’t move into my own life until I do.
This process will be painful, both to write, and …