Goodnight, Sweet Boy

My Dearest Brother,

Words are barely adequate to express my love for you.  The hole in my heart is jagged and raw and every time I talk to someone else about you, it rips open a little further, like someone is tearing at me with rough claws. The lump in my throat swells at times until I have to remind myself to breathe around it. Sometimes there is barely room for air, other times I whoosh like a punctured tire.  Stupid, hot tears run down my face and my mind careens from one place to another and my nose runs. I can't remember why I crossed the room or when I last ate or what page I was on or how much coffee I have spooned into the filter. I do not know today's date. I don't know why I have a job, or why people e-mail me for answers. I don't have them.

I remember being hugged by you, your strong arms and big heart and soft shirt, last Easter. The last time. I have a voicemail on my phone from you that day.  I know the last Facebook post: I said, "Eat your damn vegetables, people." And you replied, "You're the one with your damn cat's head all shoved up in a piece of white bread." Then I called you and we laughed and said we loved each other. It was September 13th and you were in West Virginia.  You married your beautiful wife again for the 21st time in the 21st state, just a day before the earth opened up and swallowed you whole. She said you both cried a little. You had 29 states to go...

September 14th, 2011, time slammed to a stop for me and our family and your friends. I turned off Kirk Road onto Pine and got sucker-punched by an invisible boxer at 6:13 p.m. and I screamed at the fucking Gods.

Rob tried his best to save you. He screamed, too. He loved you. A lot of people really loved you.
Your face is in my mind, your pictures on my phone, your laugh rings loud in my head.  At the funeral home, I stared at your chest and willed it to rise and fall. It did not work for me any more than it did for Rob. I kissed your beautiful forehead and touched your fuzzy hair and tried my hardest to rewind it all. It didn't work.  They say it was the Widow Maker.

Your beautiful Cindy gracefully hugged and consoled hundreds of people. Your loving daughters gazed at you and wept and hugged hundreds of people. They did good, John. They did real good.  There aren't words to say how brave our parents were that day. You broke our hearts, you know.
People came from everywhere, stumbled in, shocked, could not find words. Still can't. It was horrible and beautiful at the same time. No one is able to comprehend how energy as big as JOHN WARD could dissapate in a moment. A day. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

At Dana's house afterward, all of us expected you to bust in the front door and say something funny to let us know it was some kind of stupid, sick, time-warp universe joke. You didn't come. We waited a long time. Our family, Cindy's family, we milled around and dragged it out, I know the same thought/wish was in all our heads. He'll be here soon.

At Jack of Hearts, we lifted our glasses to you over and over. We wept and laughed and tried to find the reason, the justification, the WHY. We drank a lot and we waited a long time for you to show up. A party of that magnitude was not right without you there leading the charge, telling us "Come ON, one more! It's early, man. It's a child's portion." Joe had to go out to get more of the old whiskey from the trunk of his car. More than once.

There were new t-shirts with your sayings on them. We wore dog tags and buttons with your face on them. We told your stories, relived your life, held you dear. Prayed for your return. Samantha made us notice her in a new way, her poise was something.  I lost my phone charger and my raincoat and my brother and part of my heart, all in the same week. I never lose anything.

I tore myself from Cindy, from Alice, from the girls, from Mom and Dad and Dana and Robert and Karen and Neal, with their stunned and crumpled faces. From Zoe. She is looking for you, that little dog.  I cried from Alexander to Lexington. It rained and wispy, pretty fog draped itself between the peaks and down the valleys and faded in the sun.  My husband John had to drive the whole way. I was not able to do anything but mourn you, sweetheart.

So now we are home, life goes on. Ours does, anyway. I love you and I miss you so much it is physical and visceral. My one and only little brother, the wild man, the maverick, the fixer of things, stirrer of passions, good Dad, funny friend. Baby brother.  Our man, John.