Brotherly Grief
Brotherly Grief
They say the brain is active for 7 minutes.
As I look at his familiar face, a face I spent my whole life seeing, I find myself feeling nothing. It’s like nothing has changed, he’s still here. It’s just one of those moments that are filled with an awkward silence. Like cracking a joke at the wrong time.
But I find my eyes drifting down his body, to his hands. His hands are small, not even big enough to engulf his own mother’s hand. They aren’t going to get any bigger. I look back up towards his face, it’s like he’s sleeping. But I know my brother, I know his sleeping habits. He’s not sleeping.
They say the brain is active for 7 minutes.
I feel something stir within my gut, a sickening feeling. It’s like my mind is trying to tell me something. It found something out before me and it’s trying to convey it, but I still don’t understand. I don’t understand why my brother has his eyes closed when his mother and father are crying in the background. I don’t understand why he’s in this stupid box when he still has baby fat on his face.
I catch my mother saying something. I catch my brother’s name on her lips. I look back at my brother’s non-moving form. I feel anger seep into my fists. I grab the side of the box-the coffin. I want to yell at him, I want to get into our usual fights. I want to fight over the last soda with him. I want to blame him for breaking Mom’s favorite vase. I want to fight over the TV. I want to accuse him of getting everything he wants.
He didn’t want this.
They say the brain is active for 7 minutes.
I know my brother. My brother, who I have been breathing in the same air with for years. My gut catches up with my mind. And with every second, I’m wishing to stop thinking. My mind is running over every possibility that brought us here, in this building. Familiar faces in the background, all tear stained. Then there’s my brother, his face is beautifully calm, he’s like a piece of art in a museum. You’re not supposed to touch the art in the museum. You’re not supposed to get art wet.
They say the brain is active for 7 seconds before it shuts off.
I can’t stop them, the realization pouring from my eyes. Our mom calls for me, ready to offer comfort. I don’t need comfort. Because this is not happening. I remember what started this. This is just a dream which took a part of my memory that day and changed the ending.
I know the real ending. We ended the summer day with ice cream. We packed the floaties into the truck and went home. And we fought over who would use the shower first. Yes, that is what happened. These extra scenes in my head are unreal. His lips never turned that blue and his body never felt that cold. I never clutched his body to my chest. I never felt his cold chest against my ear, unbeating. Those sirens were just my alarm in the morning, telling me to wake up. My dream is distorting the truth.
They say the brain is active for 7 minutes before it shuts off.
I hear the hushed sounds of cries. And suddenly everything is real. I can smell the disinfectant, the smell of the clean sheets underneath you. I can hear the voices of our distant relatives. They comment on how you were such a good kid. A kid, forever forced to be one, never a man. I lash out at them. And mother looks at me with wide teary eyes. And father looks at me with anger and something conflicting, unsure.
They say the brain is active for 7 minutes before it shuts off.
I don’t care. They are wrong. You are not a good kid. You are not a good baby brother. You throw fits when you don’t get your way. You always snitch me out to Mom. You bug to hang out with me and my friends. You’re loud, been loud since you were born. You were loud. What good little brother goes before his big brother?! A good kid my ass! You were always causing me grief! I had to be there to watch you over the stupidest things. What idiot doesn’t know how to swim!? I know you are smart. You were a crybaby but you were smart. You were supposed to be smart. Damn it.
They say the brain is active for 7 minutes before it shuts off.
As I reach for your body, and my fingers grasp a suit you had never worn, familiar images come to mind. Your body, it’s cold. Your lips are purple. I can feel the coldness against my ear. Your eyes are open. They’re glassy. Your body’s cold. Your body is cold. I embrace you. Your body is still cold. I make contact with your chest. My ear is cold. My ear… I hear no heartbeat. I hear nothing. I see Mom and Dad running over. I see strangers watching. I see phone’s pointed in our direction. I can see the dirt our parents have kicked up with their sandals. Your body is cold. I feel cold. I can finally hear something. I hear the faint sounds of sirens. I can feel something other than the cold remains of the river on you. I feel hands, warm hands, grabbing at me. I don’t like it. They are pulling you away from me.
Stop it! Don’t touch him! Let my brother go!
Accept my mouth isn’t moving. Dad’s pulling me up on my feet. He’s shaking me. Where have you gone? I can see them closing the door of the ambulance. I see Mom’s panicked face before they close it. Where are they taking you? Don’t they realize how cold you are? Dad rushes me into the truck. He’s driving too fast. I puke outside the window. I feel bad for any cars behind us. We got to the hospital and it’s too late. You’re already sleeping. But I know my brother, and I know my brother’s sleep habits. You’re not sleeping.
Dad’s yelling at me. He looks angry. I can’t hear the words leaving his mouth. There’s this loud ringing in my ears and I swear I hear your voice over it. You’re telling me to watch you. Why do I have to watch you? And why am I not listening?
They say the brain is active for 7 minutes before it shuts down.
I woke up again. My hands are still clutching the suit you’re wearing. I’m aware of where I am. I’m aware that I am at a funeral. But it’s not like what we thought. There is no old person in the coffin. There is only you. And I’m shaking. And I wish you would open your mouth once more- no… more than once. I wish you would never go silent again. I just want you to snitch on me to Mom again. I want you to beg to hang out with me and my friends. I want to feel the warmth of my little brother, just like when they first brought you home from the hospital.
The brain is active for 7 minutes before the brain shuts off.
The brain is active for 7 minutes before the brain shuts down.
Before it shuts down.
The brain is active…
7 minutes…
The brain…
Before the brain shuts down
Before it dies.
It dies.
The funeral is full of wails, as loud as a baby’s. I’m suddenly reminded of when they brought you home. And I’m reminded of when they returned you. And I didn’t get to hold you again. My eyes have gone blurry. Your body looks as if it’s underwater. I’m reminded of the bubble baths we shared as kids. You were still a kid. The wails don’t stop. They keep getting louder and it’s all I can hear. I feel hands pulling on me again. I don’t like it.
Stop it.
Stop it!
If they hadn’t pulled you away… If I had held on to you tighter… warmed you up just a bit. If I had just watched you… If big brother had just watched you…
Stop!
Shut up!
The wails won’t stop. And the hands that were pulling on me are pulling harder. I feel other hands encircle me, a warmth figure behind my back. They don’t stop, the wails. But my throat is starting to hurt. My little brother… my poor baby brother. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… big brother is sorry. So sorry, so very very sorry… that I couldn’t save you.
My feet fall underneath me. I feel the sickening feeling as I did in the truck. My knees hit the floor. The hands that were pulling on me scratch at my chest. They claw. I can’t breathe. My sickness spills on the floor beneath your coffin. I can feel something die within. I don’t know what but I grieve for it. I scream for it, I cry for it. I beg for it. I wish… we were still kids… taking bubble baths. I wish we were still fighting over the TV weeks ago.
I’m going to die. I’m going to drown in the sound of grief.
Mother will have to grieve for two of her boys.
