Passionfruits

In the back of the crowd,

Things felt less … big.

I hid because I was sad,

Not because I was scared.

I had already lost others, of course -

Life is cruel and wild and I had already lived too much of it by then to think I’d make it through unscathed-

But this one was so personal,

So close to my heart,

Such a huge part of my life -

That it felt like the first time.

So, the rapid-fire Hebrew rolled right off me -

Like water on the back of my uncomfortable, confusing grief.

Before I knew it, they were filling the hole,

My brother = the only thing anchoring me to the shovel -

We covered him,

We walked away,

But I never forgot.

Almost 10 years later, I park in the space between two rows of green grass and carved stone,

I turn to my left,

And he’s there.

And it sucks.

Because the picture looks just like him and now, the memories are crashing back.

I’m standing in front of his grave, envisioning him hanging up our soaked scuba gear from the bed in a stiflingly hot room,

I’m standing in front of his grave, and I can hear him humming Iz through the dull vibration of the shaky ceiling fan,

I’m standing in front of his grave, as I watch him consume nothing but passionfruits for an entire week,

I’m standing in front of his grave, when we lose ourselves again in the water.

But the bad things come back too - the other memories that still hurt.

I’m standing in front of his grave, remembering those painful years of declining health that made him gaunt and almost terrifying to look at,

I’m standing in front of his grave, and counting the endless medications and early nights and sickness,

I’m standing in front of his grave, remembering the phone call the night before he died.

The phone call in which he all but begged me to visit.

The phone call in which he all but begged me to visit and I was only 10 minutes away.

The phone call in which he all but begged me to visit and I was only 10 minutes away, and I said no.

“Tomorrow.

I promise.

Tomorrow.”

And then, another, shorter, phone call in the morning, telling me that I had just missed him.