Birthday

My youngest brother would have been Twenty today. He missed it by six months. I always figured on being the first one to check out but I guess that he proved me wrong. I never thought that I would make it past eighteen, especially the way that I was headed, so that puts me several years into overtime but I could not have imagined having to go to a funeral service for any of my brothers.

I was seventeen when I decided that I had to leave the house. My brother was five and there was no way that he could understand the reasons why I had to go. I think that he came to figure these things out later but at that point in time I could find no way to explain to him why I had to leave.

At least I let him know that I was leaving.

So now I find our situations reversed and I can only guess at what led him to leave without even a goodbye. Years ago I told myself that I would not attend any more funeral services. Six years ago I had to break that vow to myself and have attended several more since then. Always because the living want me to be there, not the dead, and if I could bring myself to hurt them more than they already do I would avoid the gathering altogether. But there I sat as the procession went on. Cremated and placed in a small metal urn, I watched in disbelief. Pictures, people, words... nothing that I want to see or hear. Food afterwards, it is always the case. Life goes on and the living hunger. I have worked in food service since I was fourteen and have known this fact for a long time. If one cannot bring themselves to eat, then there is always drink and that is what I did. Surrounded by varied and disparate groups, I drank.

A small metal urn sat next to me and I drank.

Not for long but I did drink enough so that I did not want to drive. Mom asked me to take ***** back to the house. I nodded, said 'Sure', or made some affirmative and the masses began to disperse. Goodbyes to those that were not going back to the house, promises of 'See you soon' to those with a destination in common. My aunt and uncle tell me that they will take care of *****, not to worry about it, they'll get him, no really they can take him, it's alright they'll get him home. It takes every last bit of the little self-control that I had at that point not to punch my uncle in the face and tell my aunt to piss off. Somehow I make it out of the building and my wife drove while I carried the urn in my lap.

This is not my brother.

There was no face there for me to see before being shuffled away, this is much to light to be anyone, this is just dust and metal.

I remember being six.

I remember my father's funeral.

It was raining and there were huge blue tarps everywhere. Maybe they weren't so big, but everything is huge when you are six. I asked my great-uncle why the casket was closed, why couldn't I see my dad? He reminded me how he had passed away and that was why the lid had to remain shut. I remember hearing this and I remember it making a lot of sense. I understood and agreed, I was sensible. But there I was with grey dust in my lap and I was wishing that I could see a face one more time.

I remember the first time I was told that I had to use the phrase 'passed away' instead of simply stating that someone was dead. I was eleven or twelve and was chosen to be part of a school group that met once a week to do independent studies and the like. The group was gathered around and the teacher asked us to tell a bit about ourselves and our family. The introductions come round to me and I say my name and a bit about myself, what my mom did, and how I was 'glad to be here'...the sort of things that you say at a first meeting. I concluded my introductions and turned to the next person in the circle. 'But wait', the teacher insisted 'what does your father do?' I had left it out intentionally but now there was a demand for more information. I had tried. She did pry. I shrugged. 'He's dead'. What a pause. What a great big palpable pause. Her recovery was,'Oh you don't say that, you say that they "passed away". Next.' The first lesson there was 'Don't make people feel uncomfortable'. People want euphemisms, not bare truth no matter how much they ask for it. I have made a lot of people uncomfortable since then. I understood the lesson but have been judicious and sparing in its' application.

So many years have passed and I now have children of my own. My brothers and I were spaced out four years between each of us. Twelve years separated ***** and I. An immense gap as children. I remember him as a baby but not the others. When he was a baby, I watched him all the time, played with him, fed him, changed his diapers. I cannot do these same things for my sons and not be reminded. My youngest has a smile that is so reminiscent of his. *** was 4 months old when ***** left. I do not think that we got a picture of the two of them. Regrets.
A friend of mine has the same name, even spelled the same way, the right way. He would like to be called Uncle ***** but I don't think that I can handle that. It is hard enough every time they call out that name. So hard every time I see *** smile.

So another day...another Birthday.

Sometime this evening, I will crack open a bottle of Jack Daniels and raise a toast.

I'll drain the glass.

Twenty Nineteen Years.

I'll drain the bottle.