Tin cup for a phone

Since Friday, sounds are louder, spaces are smaller, disappointments are grander, that pit deep in my soul is blasted open further by the unspeakable reality that my brother is gone. Since Friday, I find myself wandering. I wrote a "ditty" not too long ago that somehow speaks to this:

I find myself wandering in cobwebbed places, floating in stagnant ponds, digging in uncovered holes, looking for comfort in the empty. It's too lonely a place and desperate a feeling. Must be what the leaf feels when clinging to the branch and then releasing. The pause between holding on and letting go--exposed to how the wind might receive you, hoping that it will carry you well and with the grace of time. Hoping that it will embrace you and instill comfort in the moment between hope and reality. Praying that when things settle in silence, you'll be at peace and not in pieces.

Craigy, my brother. The standard. That guy who'd call me on a Friday night when others wouldn't; we'd laugh out loud at life in general and all things specific, wondering when things would finally kick in for the deserving, realizing that it already had in so many ways. We were loving siblings who relied on each other like a drunk to Jim Bean. We were the air in each others lungs; the calm in each other's shaking. And like a subtle decrescendo, we always found a peaceful way to end the days, end the months, end the years - we were always part of the rhythm, the beat, the notes that created it all. No matter what, the four of us were together: Diane, Jill, Craig and I. We were each other. We were it all, the crescendo and the fall. We were the fame and the flame on the lonely nights of rain. We were the summers and the spring. We were the smiles and tears, the wayward pushes and loving insults. The gentle competition and nudge to be more than we were. The desire to be at least something to each other, and to each other we were the world. The foursome. The impenetrable foursome somehow penetrated by cancer. Craig was my world, my brother, my other. He is my other and always will be my other.

There are few pleasantries in this; fairness is too hard to find. Cancer is that pitiful, amorphous form curled up in a neglected corner ashamed of taking someone so young, so vibrant, someone destined to impact this world so profoundly. Cancer, that unnecessary tool that reminds us to appreciate absolutely everything as if human consciousness was really capable of storing up all that is meaningful. Cancer, that steals dreams, milestones, ambitions and travel destinations yet undiscovered. Cancer, that f^&*#r who steals your soul on a Friday night without a $5 bill to pay your way home.

Cancer took Craigy like my mom, taking their buoyancy before too long. They weathered the storm as long as they could, longer than many would, with waves beating against their will. They stood there still. Until the air left them; until their eyes left them; until their hearts left them. And, we stood there still, never leaving their sides.

Craigy, man of virtue and strength, needing our assistance to hold your head as your muscles waned. Who will be our mark of excellence as we sail another zinger? Who will flare their nostrils and excite their "frankenviens" in tribute to a worthy joke or smartass comment? Who will be there to call and talk for hours when few would with such regularity? Who will be you? Who could be you? Jill, Diane and I are truly the luckiest sisters. We were YOUR sisters. We ARE your sisters.

There's no relief in death, only relief that he's not suffering. That comment would make more sense if he ever articulated that he was suffering, but he didn't. He took it on the chin like a Roman soldier, taking the discomfort with the comfort of existence. Any one of us would have gladly dedicated our lives to Craig's caretaking if it meant one more day of his life here with us and a life for himself -- and one that he enjoyed.

There's no relief. Doubtful there will ever be.

Just the empty feeling of a tin cup for a phone. ~E