I had a dream last night, and you were with me. This dream was the closest I would ever get to realizing that feeling of being alone. It felt so real that when I finally woke up, I expected to be at home beside him. As I laid there still in the groggy divide between dreams and the truth, the reality hit me. I was not at home; you were not there with me, we never talked.
It’s been almost six months, and in those almost six decades to me, a lot of life has been lived. Sometimes reluctantly, other times, wholeheartedly running fast and absorbing every drop that the moment has to offer like it could be my last. Death has done that to me. Made me more vulnerable to the coming of it. It’s no longer some far-off thing that “unlucky” people have to ponder. It’s a reality, everything dies, and yet we all try to find a way to live.
Life often doesn’t come easy, and I find myself wishing to be one of those “lucky” people. The ones who still have their parents around for all of life’s little moments. That’s when I find myself like Arya Stark listing the things you’ve missed.
I recite the list over and over in my head as if I could forget as if my heart would ever let me. And I think one day, I might stand before God, recite the list then ask why?
Why did my brother have to die so young?
Why don’t people who have everything that matters, more accepting of it?
And even in asking these questions, I already know the answer, “because life isn’t fair.” It’s a cliché, but it’s true.
In a fair world, my brother would have been by my side every day as I know he would have done. he would have given me the strength and solace only brothers can provide. I wouldn’t have to wonder what might have been because I would have lived it.
It’s in these moments of reverie that I recite the list, and for as much as it comforts me, it angers me. I’ve realized that if I’m “lucky,” one day the list will be so long that I won’t remember the beginning. One day, I’ll have more years without you than I had with you. One day, I’ll stop asking why. One day, I’ll realize that “lucky,” is relative.
In the meantime, I continue to live as I have this past. Oscillating between reluctance to give up the ghost and running wholeheartedly through life like it’s my last day here.
Never truly letting all the tears flow.
If I did that, I would lose the last part of you I have left, my grief.