Moment With My Brother.

Only one time in my life do I remember connecting emotionally with my brother. But it was this moment, that is forever etched in my mind, and will always represent the best of him, the best of a brother...

It was a Sunday, I think. I don't remember, those details blur in my mind, as the memory brings blurry tears to my eyes just now, trying to write, being lost in the memory... The day was a blur. All I remember was rushing into the funeral home, grabbing frames and photos, makings sure someone was with dad, checking the time, and "managing" the process. Like someone who was paid for the task. So we got there, walked in, handed over sets of elaborate wooden frames filled with family photos that had one time or another lined the mantel. So we were there. Made it. Okay. Ready to go. Process to begin. Whoosh.

Dad and Kelly walked in to the double doors, leading to "our" room. I heard something about there being so many flowers, and didn't take much note, just double checked to make sure everybody else was coming inside and the funeral manager had all our details. Looking around.

The next thing I remember, was standing at the door. Someone saying to come in, that I needed to...

Like a fireflame, instantly, falling, massively to the ground. Wails. Immovable. Sharp. Fast. Frozen. Stopped. Catatonic and catastrophic at the same time.

I don't know how much time passed. Someone made me somehow toddle to the couch; I was incompetent. Just heaving, crying. Couldn't open my eyes. My Aunt Ruth sat with me; I was lead weight. Literally unable to move any piece of me.

Heavy.

Stiff.

Removed.

Sharp.

Instant.

Strong enough protest couldn't come out of me. I was inconsolable. Hysterical.

I couldn't go. I couldn't go on. I couldn't move one more inch forward. I had no concept of back. Simply crazed and dazed and crying and sobbing and stiff.

It seemed others around me mulled forward, only relatives. But I was incoherent. Of life.

Somehow, someone moved me, or shifted me to the middle of the floor, somehow standing me up. But I still could do nothing. I protested and protested.

Angry.

Fierce.

Scared.

Stubborn.

Overcome with every aspect of life and death all at once.

My sister tried to prod me forward, telling me I needed to go look at "her." See her lying there. I couldn't; I just couldn't.

I fell to the ground again, in the middle of the funeral home floor. A weeping wail of sobs and screams and wrenching, twisted agony. Weight like freighters through my limbs; a heap.

And my brother came over, picked me up with sheer power and strength and compassion, and just held me so tight to his chest. He was pure, solid, like raw strength drawing from this well of brotherhood that held me like I have never been held before, or since. As if my very being was being clutched. And in it, offered brutal might and punching love.

I never made it through the facing. I eventually clomped to the casket, cupped at both sides by other adults, because everyone thought I had to see her one last time.

I couldn't. I wouldn't. I couldn't instill image in my mind. I only wanted what was truly her.

I don't remember much else about the proceedings that followed after that, or how I pulled it together for everyone else, for the viewing, for the closing of the casket...

But I will always be stamped with this moment. This awful, painful, spanking, brute section of time will always condemn me, leave a stamp on me. It's a story I rarely recall, I never share. But it is a story of power, of strength, of something that occurred inwardly with my brother that I will never capture back.