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unravelled

last day

It’s still a shock that my brother isn’t alive anymore. I speak about him with the present verb tense even as I talk about his death. We had made a reservation for him and his girlfriend to stay here at the co-housing community guest room this past weekend… when one of our neighbors asked if our guests had arrived, I had to really think about who we’d saved the room for… and then of course there it was…. it was for my brother, who is gone.

Two nights ago, his girlfriend posted this photo, taken on their last day out in the big world together. It came up in my news feed on facebook, and the natural color, his uncensored smile, the beauty of it was just so there, so alive, that it took my breath away. I had a moment of simple reaction, of thinking it was him, alive, real. Then the tears, the heavy reality.

Since coming home from Seattle where he died, I have consumed myself with knitting. The simple repetition, the feel of the yarn and needles, the attention to tension in my hands as they pass the yarn, these all combine to numb my thoughts. I’ve finished three hats in two weeks, and last night started a sweet little button-down vest for Shoghi.

The last time I knit so much was in 2007, during the end of my marriage to D. The day after we separated, I went with my best friend and bought some beautiful yarn — consolation yarn, I think we called it — and casted on for a sweater for myself, which actually I never finished. It’s kind of a double-edged sword, making things when you’re processing such sadness. But now that I’m in it again, I can see it for what it is for me: a buffer, a means for containing my emotions while they sort themselves out from within.

Maybe when I’m done this vest, I’ll actually finish up that sweater I started in ’07. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. I’m just keeping my hands busy while my mind reforms itself around this new and very sad part of my own life – without my little brother.

 
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Posted by on November 1, 2011 in family, loss

 

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Passed

Simon died 9 days ago. My little brother, whom I admire(d) and adore(d), is somehow no longer here. I was there – with him for the long days of expectation and determined hope for healing, for the meetings with surgeons and neurologists, for the pronouncement that he would not survive. Along with many others, and as far as I was permitted, I accompanied him on the journey of last breaths, and watched as his body was left behind – as we were all left behind.

Here I am, though, ten days later, and I am lost. I get up, manage the morning with my boys and get them to school (thank god for school), come home and return to pajamas and bed. I knit, watch Netflix, and keep this ocean of sadness at bay with the repetitive motion of yarn around needle, up, down. Rote doing and mechanical being.

I didn’t take a picture of it, but in the hotel room we lived in for nearly three weeks as we kept vigil with simon, there was a lousy corporate “art” thing framed in the bedroom. I noticed it the first night: an enso, open at the top, its inner contents pouring out into the sloppily-rendered sky. I hated that painting, for it’s spirit-less, mass-produced essence, and for it’s symbolism of death, seemingly unseen by the slouch in whatever cubicle who decided it was appropriate for thousands of rooms around the world. I hated ending my days by looking death in the face.

Somehow this blog about certitude got wrapped up in my (so far failed) attempt at developing a daily practice, but really, I migrated here from my last blog because my orientation had shifted and I wanted a new place. So here I am, showing up as-is.

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Posted by on October 25, 2011 in daily enso, family, loss, relationship

 

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