Going Through It
Dad and Mikey in the French Quarter this past Saturday
The last week or two have been difficult. It was one of those periods where every step I took felt like a tooth-and-nail fight. Like I had to battle through a minefield of stress and anxiety and that the load was becoming so heavy as to manifest physically. Blood pressure was elevated despite careful eating and healthy habits, and every little thing felt highly pressurized. Well, most things, anyway. Kechi’s calming influence and care is probably what kept me from breaking down at all.
My brother Brandon’s memorial service was scheduled for this past Saturday, and while I wasn’t in charge of coordinating or executing the whole thing, my sister did ask me to say some words when we spread Brandon’s ashes on the river. Writing and speaking those words felt like the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.
At the last minute, my father decided to attend the event. Those of you who know me know that my brother Brandon was not related to me by blood. We grew up across the street from each other in our suburban Maryland subdivision and bonded very deeply very young, making the choice to claim each other as brothers. Dad flew down to Atlanta to drive out to New Orleans with my brother Mikey, and I’m glad he did. I think his coming was the last bit of support we needed to get the whole thing done without faltering.
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon when we all assembled on the Moonwalk behind Café du Monde. I read my letter, which was directly addressed to my brother. Since he’s been gone, I’ve texted him a few times, and there was one night where, most likely in dream, we conversed one last time over the phone.
Having grown up on ghost stories, it’s been important to me in all this not to make my grief my brother’s problem. It’s not that I think he’d be forced to return or anything—I’m not a believer in ghosts, per se—but I don’t feel any more deserving of his attention or consideration than the others who were closest to him, and I knew that finding a way to live with this grief, to release my brother to whatever, if anything, comes next, was something I would have to do so largely on my own. Because of that, my chief worry was that the memorial ritual wouldn’t change anything for me, that the grief would continue to speed my heart and play like invisible flames along my skin at odd moments. What I was hoping for was not a cessation of all that—a grief like this doesn’t turn off at the flip of a switch—but I was hoping that I could turn a corner where the pain would feel different, would transmute into something more livable.
I’m relieved to say that I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happened. I was drained by the experience of spreading his ashes, but I was tremendously happy to spend time in the company of others who knew Brandon well and loved him deeply. While I’m still tired from that, I no longer feel ready to jump out of my skin. That’s all I asked for.
On Sunday afternoon, after sleeping in, I made a breakfast of a veggie scramble, sausage, and biscuits for our house guests, and Dad shared an essay he wrote for the family discussing recent political and social events and our family's duty to resist and respond. It inspired me and reminded me of my own strength--and then we said goodbye that night, and my dad and brother embarked on their drive back to Atlanta. Kechi and I went to bed early, poured-out like water, relieved.
I’m not going to publicly share the words I wrote and spoke for my brother in their present form, but they’ll find their way into my work for years to come. One thing I can share is the story I wrote based on our connection and the loss I’ve felt. It appears in the recently-published anthology, 120 Murders, from Ruadan books. Writing the story was a struggle, but I’m pleased with the end product, and if you’re interested, please check it out. It’s a strong volume filled with a lot of talent, and I’m happy to be included. It’s also got an excellent mix of newer authors and veterans, and my old old friend Cyan Katz, who I’ve known since 1998 has a story in there. I believe it’s their first pro sale, and it’s solid!
As we’ve been doing most Mondays, Kechi and I came to New Orleans today, and while she taught her standup class at the AllWays Lounge and then executed yet another photo shoot, I’ve been sitting working at the Bean Gallery and just feeling the city wrap its feathered arms around me all over again. As has been the case for a long time now, the novel pages have flowed freely, and now my body feels sturdy enough to let the story move through me without worrying I’ll come apart at the seams like Oogie Boogie. I’m in the home stretch of this novel draft, and I’ll be sharing some more of it in some form on Patreon this week—don’t you worry!
As always, thanks for reading!