My circle is small. But it is strong. My circle sometimes takes different shapes. But it's always connected. My circle relies on each part to help hold it together. When one part is weak, the other parts bring the strength to maintain connectivity. It's kind of like lava. It fills in tired and weathered cracks inside the terrain and reinforces its own structural integrity. Turns out, my circle may not actually be a circle. It's more of a series of dots on a map that are linked by an invisible roll of duct tape. But for the purposes of this conversation, we will refer to it a circle in order to avoid any metaphorical confusion.
On the Monday before last, my circle stopped being a circle. We lost part of our connection. We lost a link. We have a gap in what we were. Even though our loss has brought us closer, we are still without one of our fasteners. The hugs, the tears, the talks all remind us that there is a chasm in who and what we were. I just need to relive some of this for a minute. It's going to be an uncomfortable conversation, mostly for me, but I just need to write it out.
I got an IM on that Monday afternoon from a dear friend. Office communicator popped up with a message that said "I need to talk to you." Being difficult, as always, I replied with "What did I do now?" No response. Probably for about 30 seconds. But something told me it wasn't good. 45 seconds. Still no response. Around 55 seconds I got the reply that read "It's not about you, but its not good." Again, being difficult, I told him, "I'm don't think I like your tone." And I didn't. I didn't like it at all. It made me uncomfortable. It made me worry. And it made me reel with fear. The seconds that I awaited the reply were ticking in my head. All of them. All of the seconds were screaming so loud inside of me that I could feel every single one. Tic. TIC. TIC!!! The longer I waited, the more I squirmed in my chair; the harder I stared at the monitor and the phone. One of them had to give some sort of interaction. But neither did.
I finally picked up the phone and dialed the number. My friend answered, as if he wasn't expecting my call: "Service Center Administration, Can I help you?" I said "What the fuck is happening?" He said only two words. Those two words were the name of a dear, mutual friend. The first thing I said was "No." The voice on the other end of the phone told me that he didn't want me "to read it somewhere or hear to 3rd hand." I was silent for a minute. It was an excruciating moment of absence. I was waiting for something. Something to tell me that I had jumped to a conclusion that wasn't reality. That something never came. I whispered into the phone "hedidit." It was a statement, not a question.
It's funny. I didn't ask how Drew was. I didn't ask if he got in car accident or fell down the stairs or drowned on the North Shore in a one of those random surfing things that happen to those kamakasi kids who live without fear of mortality . I just knew that he was gone and I knew why he was gone. All I said was "hedidit." Then I wondered why I wasn't surprised that he did it.
I talked to Drew on a regular basis. Several times weekly, at least. I knew he was in a bad place. And I know that bad places and bad things happen to all good people sometimes. But Drew was smart and funny and pretty. So, even though he was in a bad place, he was going to get out of it. I knew that. I felt it way deep down in my soul. I knew that Drew was going to come out the other side of this fucked up island living/working/surviving situation and was going to do something so much better. He just was.
Back to the phone call I was forced to make on Monday afternoon. I was so convinced that Drew would be just fine as soon as he got out of Hawaii. So, why was I not surprised to hear that he was gone? Why didn't I question the cause of his death? Why were the tears that I cried as I grieved his loss also tears of guilt? Because I am my brother's keeper. And I failed him. I failed my brother. And I have to carry some responsibility knowing that I didn't do right by my brother.
Now, as I have documented very well, I am not a theologian. I'm not biblical. And Christianity certainly is not my spiritual refuge of choice. But I believe the stories of the bible can be very resonant in humanity. In the story of Cain and Abel, after Cain brutally murdered his brother, God asked Cain "Where is your brother?" Cain replied, and I'm paraphrasing here, "How the fuck should I know? Am I his keeper?" Then God was like "Uh. Yeah. Kinda. You are. You were a total dick to your brother. Now he's dead and you are dead to us" (Genesis 4:8-11).
One of the last conversations I had with Drew was when I was feeling particularly pathetic. I told him: "Now be honest, Bro. Why am I so unlovable?" He laughed that laugh he had. I never knew if it was patronizing or if it was omniscient. But he laughed that laugh and said "Angela. You are not unlovable. You are just really hard to love." And because I didn't know if he was being patronizing or if he was being omniscient, I laughed. Then I called him a dick. Just to make sure he knew I was being patronizing. Or pissed off.
I think back to that conversation and I wonder how he was so sad and I couldn't see it. I see people. I see their souls. I see their desperation. In life, I didn't see that in Drew. But as soon as I made that Monday afternoon phone call, I saw it all so clearly. I saw my brother struggling. I saw him suffering. I saw him in silence. I am my brother's keeper.
And I failed him.
-Inner Peas
No comments:
Post a Comment