Today is the 25th year since my older brother passed away, at that he had been alive 34 years, and I knew him not even for that long. I’ve not known him besides dim memories, black and white photos, I can only grasp at; in some alternate universe he is my 59 year old brother who has been a force in my life, whom is calling me right now on the telephone letting me know of his latest trip abroad or his crazy plans for building something by hand.
It took many years later to return back to that Baltimore grave, the marker for the living, where I read a letter, perhaps the most words I ever really spoke at length to this stranger who was my mother’s son. I surely did not understand it as a child:
It was 25 years ago also that I was poised for a summer journey, I call it Odyssey 1.0, where I drove to Arizona, in search of a new life.
What I have now is a calendar entry, some old photos, a rocking chair, and a memory created that I try to keep woven into my being. I went in the direction of the evening sun, finding a home feeling among the rock an cacti, but mostly, under the sprawling blue sky.
I cling to the memory pieces, it’s all I have. I read it again and again.
And now, late at night, I can only barely even whisper a name.
And the universe, ever making me smaller, utters nothing in reply.