Dead and Broken

On the Loss of Victor R. Smith:

And so it is, with the loss of my last brother, Victor Smith, two days ago, I become an only child that once had four siblings. I suppose, being an orphan as well, with both parents deceased, this does not count. I certainly did not expect his loss, or at least not this soon, and I struggle. I find this odd because of all my siblings, we probably were the least close. We didn't hate each other and weren't angry with each other, but we were just very, very different sharing little in the way of interests though he did begin riding a bicycle a bit a few years back. Our lives went such different directions.

 

 

But for there to be no one left. No one left who remembers the sound of my mother singing as she did her household chores. No one left who remembers the stories she told us or the feel of her hands when you got sunburned and she applied a cooling ointment. No one left who remembers my father fixing things and his gentle rumblings around the house as he prepared to go to work at the hospital for doctors back then did rounds in the morning.

 

 

There is nobody left to remember the old family stories like the one about Chris getting out of the car and the gas station during vacation and our parents driving off and leaving him as they thought he was asleep in the back of the car. There is nobody left to remember the time I picked Victor for my Birthday King knowing I had hurt his feelings as I first was going to pick Tim Slater, his friend, who I thought was incredibly handsome. There is nobody left to remember the story about Marc deciding to camp up the road in a neighbor's yard that we didn't know even taking his own toilet paper. There is nobody left to remember Pam looking and buying clothing by price tag rather than by what looked the best or playing country music long before it was popular. There is nobody left to remember the time Dad dressed as Santa Claus and scared the dickens out of me. While they tended to me, the dog got on the table and ate the steak we were going to have for dinner that evening. It is, indeed, as if my childhood were severed from me, becoming more like a novel I read long ago than an experience I had that shaped and molded me and that I treasure. And I mourn. It is just too sad. I have lost so much.

 

 

Sleep well, brother. I have always loved you. You left too soon. Too young. Tell everyone hello and give them hugs. The caboose is still here waiting for her turn. Fly, Vee, fly.

 

 

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The funeral was yesterday and it is done.  Today, in an attempt to heal, I force my leg over the Surly and go seeking gravel knowing there will be solitude there.  I remember this feeling.  How one becomes dead inside for the longest time, broken somehow.  There is nothing anyone can do, though a few somehow manage to bypass the wall I have erected inside with a few words of comfort: a text from Paul, a card from Sharon, an email from Jon, a hug from Tiffany.   In the end, we are  helpless in the face of death.  My sympathy goes to my brother's wife because how well I remember how people, as they should, begin to go about their lives and reality hits like a sledgehammer.

I know it is beautiful here despite the growing heat.  It has been a cooler week and there has been rain enough that water lines the road in places.  The gravel has been recently raked and is rough, shaking me to my very bones, but I do not yield quickly to the temptation of pavement.  It is enough to feel......something, even discomfort.  

The Ironweed is beginning to bloom.  It seems early.  I think that I will remember my brother from now on when I see Ironweed.  Bumblebees are working it and I notice the Sumac is near bloom.  Fall approaches when it seems summer has just begun.  I pause for a moment to eat the peanut butter sandwich I have brought along as I expect no store stops on this ride.  I spot road treasure.  A large Yeti Jug that someone evidently lost.  

Taking my bandana out of my pant leg (I keep it there as I can easily reach it to wipe sweat) I tie it to the rack on the back of the Surly.  After some internal debate, as it is hot and I am sweating, I also remove the bandana around my forehead and use it as an anchor as well. 

I decide to abandon my ride and return home.  For today it is enough that I made myself head out the door.  Time will heal.  Bicycles will help. My heart will once more soak in the beauty God puts before me and send it directly to my heart.  But for now, I am broken and dead inside.