Boy, You’re Gonna Carry That Weight

Some pain goes away. The incision from appendicitis surgery is relieved with codeine and rest. A week later the ordeal is forgotten. The pain suffered from the loss of a job, a friend, a home, is dulled over time and replaced with a new job, a new smiling face, and wonderful gardens surrounding a home on the river.

The discomfort of bills, a tepid work acquaintance, a traffic ticket, and the nuisance of telemarketers can be resolved. But the pain of losing a loved one to death knows no resolution. Knowing this is what gives birth to the infinite pain.

I exited the funeral home, my glasses cloudy from the conflict between the chilly air conditioning and the humid Queens July skies. I was elated that he had so many lifelong friends, and dejected by the fact that I did not realize that, and that he might not have known either. I didn’t get their names, but I intend to. There were about seven men, all around his age, all carrying the guilt and weight that comes from leaving religion behind and thinking you could have done more.

I carry that weight myself.

“You did all you could,” I said to one of the friends, before offering him to sign the guest book, so I could know who he was. I am typically bad with remembering names, and definitely not good at it while grieving. But I want to get to know who my brother was. But was I consoling him … or myself? Regretful that I did not get to see him last Christmas, that I last saw him a year and a half ago? Too wrapped up in my life, organizing a house sale and move. Too tired.

“I let him die,” I was shocked to overhear one of the friends lament.

“He’s with your parents now,” said a soothing voice emanating from one of my sister’s friend’s calming persona, creating a positive diversion as I wondered if I could have or should have done more. “This is when God wanted him,” said one of the sweet nuns who came to call, one of the two who had been with him when he departed. “This is what he wanted,” said the other nun.

When I last saw him, he started to say that he had something to tell my sister and I. But then he stopped short and decided it was not the right time for some reason. What did he want to tell us? Yet another mystery that is my brother.

So we all sat and grieved. Were we grieving our brother, friend, co-worker, teacher, confidante, or our dearly departed pasts, indicative of our own frailties, a reminder that we are fallible?

Funny how we don’t realize who cares for us or how much, and it’s ironic that we sometimes don’t know ‘til we pass on who really cared.