One year ago today, on a beautiful Sunday morning in Arizona, I received a phone call from my brother Thadius telling me our brother, our father's son, was dead.
He was in a head-on collision during the early hours of the day on a tiny two-way "highway" that our family had crossed countless times on our way to school, the grocery store, visiting relatives and friends, the swimming pool, and family vacations. The other people involved, who only sustained injuries, are suing my dad for more money than he has and they deserve.
I didn't find out until much later, but apparently a man had been there with him when he died. I have no idea who this man is, but I'm grateful to him. I'm grateful Seth wasn't alone. I don't know if this is wishful memory or fact, but the man said he was peaceful. It helps me to think of someone being there.
It's hard to believe it's been a year. It seems so much longer than that. I'm in a different state, living a different life. Everyone seems to have moved so much since then: My aunt is living near New York, becoming a master chef. My dad is no longer farming; something he's been doing since before I was born. No one knows where my mother is. My brother hardly answers his phone. My dad is having a hard time, still, being the subtle light that so many people know him to be. I tell him it's only been a year and that eventually it will become unobstructed. I don't know what to say, really.
Last week we had a long conversation on the phone while I walked my pugs. He told me about a dream he'd had while I sat on a stone bench outside my apartment, not wanting to lose the call because of the elevators. My dad told me about Seth going over some hill in a little car that had no top and spread out wheels like an Indy car. My dad ran up over the hill and down to him, and jumped up on the car. It was low enough to do that, he explained. He held him, and Seth was okay, just weak. But okay, and at peace.
My dad never dreams, and to hear him tell me about one, this one, broke my heart. Enough that over a week later I just spent time in the bathroom sitting, folded over, on the edge of the toilet lid with paper towels crushed against my eyes, crying hard and silently with the top of my head against the wall.
I don't think any of my tears have ever been for me, or for Seth. I may be a callous son of a bitch, but I've never been really sad about the passing itself. Anyway I can figure it, Seth is okay. They're for my family. Especially my father. My dad is the kind of person you sincerely wish never has anything bad happen to. And this sort of thing tends to fit into the Something Bad category. I know his heart is broken, and that hurts worse than anything that could ever happen to me.
Today I'm listening to one of the saddest albums on my iPod, even though it's about breaking up instead of death. Loss is loss, I guess. Biking to work I mused that it'd be horrendous for me to get in some kind of accident today, so I was extra careful. I even printed off two copies of my exact bike route just in case I go missing one day. One for work, one for home. Morbid, yep. Fitting, probably.
In a bit here I'll be heading to the cigar shop to pick up a few stogies. One thing Seth, Thad, and I always seemed to happen upon when we got together was smoking cigars. It started on the cruise the entire family took for my dad's wedding, and continued when I would come home for some or reason or another.
Once, staying in the redwoods with Seth, my dad and his wife, after I had been shocked to see how big and deep-voiced he'd gotten, we sat out on the dark damp deck and smoked cigars, catching up on the missed years with mossy giants slowly cutting into the cabins and muffling everything. He kept shocking me with how smart and old he'd gotten. When I'd left for college he was still a child. Cigars ain't much, or like some huge thing we shared, but it's a tiny homage to the time we did spend together. Sure wish we could do it again.
The moral of this story is obvious. I don't think I'll say anything more.
Take care.
- David
Edit:
This morning I thought, briefly, of wearing all black, or maybe having a black band around my arm like they do at some funerals. But I already have them around my wrist.
