Last night I had a dream. I was at a bridal shower or party at my grandparent's old house. There were bits and pieces of weirdness. I was traveling in a car at one point, left my purse in another car and somehow ended up missing a teddy bear from my childhood. However, the part I remember most was hugging my brother. He was at the party at my grandparent's house and in the dream I hadn't seen him in a while. I walked towards him and he asked if I had grown taller. I slipped my shoes off and then he gave me a hug. I remember feeling happy because it had been so long since I saw him. He was smiling and happy.
When I woke up, hugging my brother was not the most odd part of my dream. I didn't even process that I couldn't really hug my brother until I told my fiance about the dream. That is when it all became real. I don't forget that my brother died, but sometimes it's not always consciously present in my mind.
Even though the dream makes me sad, I am happy. I'm happy that in my dream I got to hug my brother and tell him how much I miss him.
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Friday, March 25, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
August 14, 2010
I am engaged. I wear a diamond on my left ring finger. This is who I am now. I am a fiancee. I am someone who my brother can not see. I am something that he never knew. I don't define myself only by this, but this part of me my brother did not know.
I often think of my brother now that I am planning a wedding. I think about the times when I was growing up, like many little girls, I planned all the details of my future wedding. I always believed that my brother would be a groomsmen, and that he would read scripture. These were non-negotiable. Yet, in the reality of my brother's death, his role cannot happen. The wedding is not about my brother's death, nor is it about painfully remembering the fact that he is not with us. Yet I cannot bear letting my wedding day go by without remembering that my family is not complete without him. I cannot be whole in the celebration of my new life without remembering the life of my brother. Brian did exist for however short a time on earth, but my brother lived and breathed and I cannot forget that fact. I cannot cease to think that he was a live and that there isn't a day that goes by where I don't think about him.
So, I ordered a vase and a floating candle. The vase is engraved with his name, and will sit on a small table in the front of the church. I'm hoping that my mother will light the candle as she is seated. I'm planning on putting something small in the bulletin. It's something small, but for me it will make all the difference.
I often think of my brother now that I am planning a wedding. I think about the times when I was growing up, like many little girls, I planned all the details of my future wedding. I always believed that my brother would be a groomsmen, and that he would read scripture. These were non-negotiable. Yet, in the reality of my brother's death, his role cannot happen. The wedding is not about my brother's death, nor is it about painfully remembering the fact that he is not with us. Yet I cannot bear letting my wedding day go by without remembering that my family is not complete without him. I cannot be whole in the celebration of my new life without remembering the life of my brother. Brian did exist for however short a time on earth, but my brother lived and breathed and I cannot forget that fact. I cannot cease to think that he was a live and that there isn't a day that goes by where I don't think about him.
So, I ordered a vase and a floating candle. The vase is engraved with his name, and will sit on a small table in the front of the church. I'm hoping that my mother will light the candle as she is seated. I'm planning on putting something small in the bulletin. It's something small, but for me it will make all the difference.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
years
today will mark the two year anniversary since my brother's death...
last year I drove to Florida with his friend Jessie, and spent the day with her and family friends, who my brother lived with for a few months while he was in Florida.
today, this year, I am going to the beach and camping one night, with my boyfriend.
just wish that today could be normal...but now I don't think I could ever let this day, or any day really, pass without thinking about my brother.
last year I drove to Florida with his friend Jessie, and spent the day with her and family friends, who my brother lived with for a few months while he was in Florida.
today, this year, I am going to the beach and camping one night, with my boyfriend.
just wish that today could be normal...but now I don't think I could ever let this day, or any day really, pass without thinking about my brother.
Friday, June 4, 2010
home
Today is the last day of my visit home. I've spent nearly three weeks in Massachusetts. Tomorrow I will be flying back to D.C.. My Florida trip has made me not scared of planes anymore. Thankfully.
It's an odd feeling being at home again. The last time I was here was January. Not much has changed in this small New England town. The house hasn't changed either. But little changes in my brother's room have started to happen.
The door to his room is no longer covered with the random assortment of buttons, pieces of paper and various printed versions of my brother's name. There are things taken down from the wall, and a box of random things on the tv stand where the eight-track player once lived. My boyfriend came to stay for a few days, and honestly before he came (and stayed in the room) it looked like my brother had just been home. The top of the dresser has his deodorant, random papers, mints, etc.. All signs of my brother's life. And now all pushed into the top drawers of the dresser, in hopes of presenting the room as empty. Although the wall still have posters, and if you really look around it is full of my brother's possessions. It at least no longer looks like my brother is simply gone away for the weekend.
It's a change that will be finalized soon. At least that is what my parents keep saying. My father remarked that its something he wants to do, clean the room, but every time he tries to, he cannot part with anything that once was my brother's. Its a double edge sword, because my brother is gone, and the things he once used does not bring us any closer to my brother now. Yet, its hard to hold something in your hand, and realize that Brian used this, or Brian use to play with this. It is especially hard to throw something away if you remember Brian using it.
My thoughts this afternoon have to do with home, and what it means to be home, and who makes up this "being home." After my brother died I use to wish him to just return home. I remember sitting up late at night on the computer waiting, hopelessly, for him to come home. When I moved to D.C. I was worried that my brother didn't know that I would have left home, so somehow he wouldn't be able to find me-if he was watching me.
I call my dorm in DC home. I call the house I am now staying in home. Depending upon the person I am speaking to, and where I am. Is my dorm really a home. Not really, but it where I live, and a person who I love lives a few dorm rooms down from me. But the house in Massachusetts will always be my home. Even years from now when this house is sold. This is the last place my brother lived, and regardless of the fact that my old house, with much more family history, that I moved out of when I was twelve, will always be the "true home" for me, this house holds much more memories. I hashed out the troubling times of my teenage years in this house. I spoke on the phone to my first boyfriend in my room, and last night I spoke with my current boyfriend, on my cell phone, in my room.
I miss my brother when I am home. When I am away, I always wish that when I return home, that maybe Brian would be home too. It's something that, after two years, I should know just cannot happen. It still catches me off guard when I realize that it has almost been two years since he died. And I'm growing into the realization that I will always be able to feel the weight of his death in the depths of my soul. And I am still trying to figure out what it means to truly be at home, or really go home. I hate the trite saying "you can never go home again" or some version of that idiom. Except that my home has so radically changed over the course of the last two years, that what remains is a working house, with the remains of a life, lived fast and ended too soon.
It's an odd feeling being at home again. The last time I was here was January. Not much has changed in this small New England town. The house hasn't changed either. But little changes in my brother's room have started to happen.
The door to his room is no longer covered with the random assortment of buttons, pieces of paper and various printed versions of my brother's name. There are things taken down from the wall, and a box of random things on the tv stand where the eight-track player once lived. My boyfriend came to stay for a few days, and honestly before he came (and stayed in the room) it looked like my brother had just been home. The top of the dresser has his deodorant, random papers, mints, etc.. All signs of my brother's life. And now all pushed into the top drawers of the dresser, in hopes of presenting the room as empty. Although the wall still have posters, and if you really look around it is full of my brother's possessions. It at least no longer looks like my brother is simply gone away for the weekend.
It's a change that will be finalized soon. At least that is what my parents keep saying. My father remarked that its something he wants to do, clean the room, but every time he tries to, he cannot part with anything that once was my brother's. Its a double edge sword, because my brother is gone, and the things he once used does not bring us any closer to my brother now. Yet, its hard to hold something in your hand, and realize that Brian used this, or Brian use to play with this. It is especially hard to throw something away if you remember Brian using it.
My thoughts this afternoon have to do with home, and what it means to be home, and who makes up this "being home." After my brother died I use to wish him to just return home. I remember sitting up late at night on the computer waiting, hopelessly, for him to come home. When I moved to D.C. I was worried that my brother didn't know that I would have left home, so somehow he wouldn't be able to find me-if he was watching me.
I call my dorm in DC home. I call the house I am now staying in home. Depending upon the person I am speaking to, and where I am. Is my dorm really a home. Not really, but it where I live, and a person who I love lives a few dorm rooms down from me. But the house in Massachusetts will always be my home. Even years from now when this house is sold. This is the last place my brother lived, and regardless of the fact that my old house, with much more family history, that I moved out of when I was twelve, will always be the "true home" for me, this house holds much more memories. I hashed out the troubling times of my teenage years in this house. I spoke on the phone to my first boyfriend in my room, and last night I spoke with my current boyfriend, on my cell phone, in my room.
I miss my brother when I am home. When I am away, I always wish that when I return home, that maybe Brian would be home too. It's something that, after two years, I should know just cannot happen. It still catches me off guard when I realize that it has almost been two years since he died. And I'm growing into the realization that I will always be able to feel the weight of his death in the depths of my soul. And I am still trying to figure out what it means to truly be at home, or really go home. I hate the trite saying "you can never go home again" or some version of that idiom. Except that my home has so radically changed over the course of the last two years, that what remains is a working house, with the remains of a life, lived fast and ended too soon.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
today is not unlike yesterday
Last night I started crying and this morning again I find myself holding back tears. I'm not sure of the reason anymore. I know that I need to admit to myself that I can't figure this all out on my own and that maybe talking to a professional would help me. However, it is a lot easier to type it or even just think it. It is a lot hard to dial the phone number.
I think part of the hesitation is the New England culture in which I was raised. In my home I never saw my parents cry. I know now they both had much to actually cry about. I remember very vividly sitting in my great Aunt's house watching an old movie (that was recently transfered onto VHS tape) and seeing my mother's sister riding a horse. I watched as that scene caused my grandmother to begin to cry, a loud sobbing cry. She left the room and when I tried to follow her my grandfather told me to sit. I was never quite sure why I was not allowed to follow my crying grandmother, or why I was never fully explained her reaction to the video until years later. The pain, hurt and devastation was not known to me until I was a teenager. It was kept hidden. This is the model I was raised on. When I cry, I do so but only so long and then its back to business as normal. It is this very reason I think I can cry so easily. It is this very reason that when I look at a picture of my brother sometimes my stomach turns and I feel the rush of his loss new again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
