I woke up in the middle of the night and could not fall back asleep. While everyone knows I am a writer, I don’t think anyone knows why. I hear voices. They tell me stories, words that need to be recorded. And if the voices refuse to let me rest until I write those words down, I know that those words are truth that God wanted me to bring into the world. That sounds more pious than I really feel. Mostly, it feels like I have an insistent boss. I don’t feel particularly good at my job, and I sometimes wish he would hire someone else, but that’s not my decision.
In this particular case, the boss gave me an instruction I have never heard before. He told me what to write but also told me that this was not intended for everyone. These words were only for a few people. I asked if I could add a few people to the list and he agreed. He also told me that I should ask the people to write back, to tell me their side of the story. So here it is.
Dear Ira,
Today is Thursday, and we buried you on Monday. It snowed the day before your funeral, which we all commented was you repeating the joke that dad told when we buried him in the middle of a massive snowstorm. You repeated the joke but in a softer, gentler voice that didn’t leave us sliding around frozen roads. While the rabbi was preparing the eulogy, he asked whether you and I were close. The question confused me. Asking if I was close to you was like asking if I breathed. Of course, I breathe, but I don’t always pay attention. Were you a good brother? You were my only brother. My entire world of brotherhood is shaped like you.
We were never told that the most important time they will spend with the people they love the most ends for the parents and the siblings when the children grow up and go out into the world. Raising my children was an endless whirlwind of diapers, packing lunches and preparing kids for school, worrying about their interests and hobbies, sudden bursts of emergencies, followed by a black hole of silence where your children once stood. They ran away to live their lives, leaving me stranded with a mutual debt of hugs I should have given while they were still small enough to receive. I owe them hugs, but they owe me, too. One debt that makes us all poorer. Anyone who thinks it is never too late to give hugs doesn’t understand how life works. It is never too late, until suddenly it is.
We grew up, close in our shared space, our shared time, and our shared family. The next stage of living our lives meant changing where we were, separating us in space, and moving on in time. I became a sporadic spectator of my brother, who had been a constant fixture of my childhood. I barely noticed while it was happening but now, I realize it was a tragedy that left a gaping hole that now aches like a missing limb. How could I not stand next to you, witnessing the life you were creating, celebrating the miracles that flowed from your heart into reality?
Ira, we grew up together in a story that began when I was born, but we barely noticed when it ended. We shared a bedroom, but I did not know to mark the last time I woke up and looked over at you sleeping. I introduced you to a cute girl, but I did not realize that she would take you away, that you would be building a life with her, and we would never share a bedroom again. You had a family to create, a life to build, and though our lives were built on the base note of brotherhood, your new life did not include a shared bedroom for me. Your new family would know you as a husband and a father, but only I would know you as a brother. I thought that knowledge was lost when you left this world. I am a poor teacher, struggling to identify my emotions and tell others what I feel. But a miracle, a real earth-shaker, happened. After the funeral, we went back to Marissa’s house, and I watched her talking with Josh. I didn’t need to tell them what kind of brother you were, what brotherhood meant to you. You had taught them well, and they were doing their homework. They had learned from you how to be brother and sister, and it was a glory to watch.
I feel closer to you now than when we both stood on the same side of the screen that separates this world from the next. In this world, we lived far apart. Distance is not measured in heaven and we can come and go as we please. Your voice has grown clearer in my heart. It is a kindness that God gave us to offset the cruelty of taking our loved ones. Our bodies grew from fruit of the same tree. Our souls came from the same source, the flame passed from one generation to the next. Will you not hear me when I call?
I need a favor. Now that you are closer to Dad than I am, please read this to him.
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