I Buried My Brother This Weekend
I buried one of my brothers this weekend. My mother only had one child, but her sister had two who she would rent out to the family. So, he is technically my cousin, though if I could cobble together the human and spiritual idea of what I believe a brother was and should be, this man was it. He grew up with me, got in trouble with me (Your Honor, I maintain that it was mostly him getting me in trouble, but I accept my role as an accomplice), and protected me in the very same way an older sibling should.
A practical joker of the highest magnitude. So much so, that even as I looked at his earthly body, laying well-kept and reserved, I was fighting the urge to lean over and whisper, “Ok, you had your fun. Time to go…”as if he would rise out of the coffin with a coy smile. I say this as I write from the guest room of my parents house, where I have been stuck due to flight cancellations in Orlando. Between him working at airports, and choosing to die in May, I am almost certain that he did that shit on purpose, leaving me to fend for flights against the overwhelming horde of tourists to Central Florida.
My cousin was full of life, love and bullshit. He pushed everything to the limit, far beyond what was said something could go, in both body and spirit. He was a 6’2 inch, 300+lbs walking party, with a penchant for shenanigans. Somehow equal parts joyous, reckless, warm and protective of those around him. Built like a middle-sized sedan and just as resilient, he forged his own path through every bump, bruise, fender-bender, trial and road curve in his life. He was the Box Chevy of people.
The biggest scar on my body is due to him convincing me to ride on the back of his bike to the corner store, downhill, with me in the seat and him on the pedals. The ensuing crash was biblical. As he carried me back to our grandmother’s house with all the resolve of a death row inmate being given his last rites, knowing we both were getting spanked for one of us coming home bloody, he stood proud feeling the story was worth the price. He didn’t run from trouble and was always sincere for any harm that he caused another person, a quality I wish more people embodied.
At 37 years old, he had already lived 100 years, which I can’t say about most people my age. A pristine example of how you can keep on going, if you keep your eyes focused on what is truly important - the value of living a life with, and for, those you love.
He leaves behind a sister, a fiance and a daughter, the latter of which shares many of his qualities including the quiet, confident body language of someone who is secretly plotting to do something more than is required, simply because “Why not?”. She is kind, caring, and embarrassed by her family who are tough and larger than life. Much in the same way her father was.
I never believed him to be the truly spiritual type, in so much that I am not sure what he believed happened to your soul, once it has left your body. However, he was baptized Catholic and he was raised mostly by a God-fearing christian woman, our grandmother. So, if there is a Heaven, I have no doubt that he is there based on some obscure loophole in the system that no one else caught; laughing, knowing he pulled one last caper.
Personally, I didn’t leave him flowers but instead opened a bar tab, as I chose to believe that he isn’t necessarily “gone” but more called home, by some grand overarching force far beyond my understanding, who simply told him “Ok, you had your fun. Time to go…”
