I sit on my gray couch looking out the window on a blue day.
Isaac messaged me this morning. When he’d hang out with Brandon (aka “Flashy”) in high school, Isaac and I used to joke about marrying each other. I don’t even remember how that started.
But Isaac mainly messaged to check-in. He’s holding onto a letter from his days in basic training. It’s from Brandon.
The topic of Brandon comes up. Suddenly, everything outside the window is gray.
Grief is strange.
I don’t want to be grieving or hurting. But I never want to forget Brandon, either. And I can’t have one without the other. I try to focus on living. But when the most lively person is no longer alive, how is anyone supposed to live?
Isaac asked how I have been doing. I don’t get asked this question much anymore. My answer has not changed, though. It’s been 10 months since Brandon died. It feels like yesterday and it feels like years ago.
Every minute of every day
That’s when I think of him. I think about his dumb self every dumb day. I know people aren’t supposed to shit-talk dead people. In this scenario, I’m the exception. I’m shit-talking my brother because I know he would shit-talk me.
Not wearing your seatbelt – what an absolute dumbass.
-Your Sister
Growing up, I would reprimand you and stop the car if you didn’t wear your seatbelt. But you don’t listen to me half the time. You pick and choose when you listen to me.
This time, I wish you listened.
This time was different and just a dumb, honest mistake.
No one thinks it will happen. I want to blame you, but you didn’t know. I didn’t know. And this isn’t “Undone.” I live with mental illness, but I can’t change the past. I’m not Alma.
Wherever you are, I know you’re ignoring everything I just said.
I miss that, too.