Darkest Before Dawn

Outside the house, my front yard is wild flowers and trees, with spiral paths weaving through for my meditation walks. One of the trees is an ancient oak, and I have a wooden swing with ropes hanging from it so my feet can trail through the soft moss below me. The backyard has a chicken coop and some raised garden beds. On the far side of the garden are two small sheds and a compost pile. There are ducks helping eat bugs, and cats helping control rabbits and mice. The cats sleep inside at night, and the ducks snuggle in one of the sheds. I have a small pond for the ducks to swim in, and for me to giggle at their adorable antics.

I’m wearing a dress that’s made of durable, breathable, fabric that allows me to be covered from the sun but move unencumbered. Currently it’s white, and I’m wearing a french-blue apron that sits over my shoulders rather than around my neck, and it has many pockets for all my gatherings. I also carry a woven basket to place larger items in, a lot of which are herbs and flowers. My hair is long and braided back so it’s out of my face; I wear a handmade flower crown around my home, and often go barefoot.

And then it did. You died. Our families were on vacation; you were in Iraq. You shouldn’t have been there; you cheated and got someone to sign off your medical clearance. And you died. Just like that. I can still hear your mom and De screaming, a sound that could shred my veins if I focus on it. I can hear your brothers swearing and holding your niece and nephew; I can feel my heart break over and over watching your sister look around, connecting the dots, then *begging* me to say it’s not true.

I remember the way the cloudless day turned dark when my dad asked yours if he needed anything, and your dad sobbed and said “I need my boy; I need my baby back with me.”

I remember how nothing felt the same; there was no warmth in the sun, no happiness in the laughter of my friends. I cried. And I got bullied for crying. How could I care when part of me felt like it died with you? My brother and I held hands and ran out of school on a Thursday afternoon and my family made a 12 hour drive in just under eight, just to get to your funeral. I cried silently through the church service, and dad had to hold me up as we walked past your casket. Then at the cemetery, the scenery was swallowed by the sheer number of mourners who came to say goodbye. 7 guns sounded thrice and it took all my strength not to fall to my knees and scream. TAPS rang through, veritable salt in the wound, and I wanted to lay in the ground with you.

To me, you were Superman. You were the best person I knew, the one who always made sure I was okay. And now I’ve had to live longer without you than I ever got to know you. I’m not sure that’s something I can reconcile. 20 years. I’ve had plans to join you many times over the last two decades, but I can’t. Now I have a little girl in my life who looks at me the way I looked at you and that’s a whole different kind of pain.

When I go to your grave this summer, I know I’ll cry. To quote JRR Tolkien, “I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.” I miss you. I miss you the way the shore misses the tide. I miss you the way a flower misses the sun but also the rain. I miss you the way I miss the spring when the heat of summer suffocates me. I miss you.

It’s been 20 years; most days it barely hurts. The ache in my chest so small I don’t notice it. But this year- this year the pain is greater. This year, I miss you even more. This year I’ll give you an extra toast and think of you more frequently. This year, 20 years.