Macabre Moments

Ever since I was a kid I’ve had two biggest fears,

One, the dark. Two, being alone.

I think the first one is pretty standard. Even now I still feel like something clutching at my neck when I walk away from the darkness,

but I think number two has more terror behind it, more hopelessness.

When I say alone, I mean not being able to experience the people I’ve known all my life; my siblings, my parents and that goes for losing any of them.

Now I’m living that fear having lost you.

Now that I have a wife and a son, I fear losing them because they are the loves of my life.

I lose them. I’ll be alone.

I fear moving on without you because you seem frozen in time.

Somewhere.

We can’t see or reach you while we move on with our lives hurting from your absence.

I fear that one day I’ll forget how you sound, how heavy and contagious your laugh was, how it carried across the room. The way it gradually grew louder and longer; very looney tuney-like.

I fear my grief will leave me one day—I hope it doesn’t. Because the grief I feel is from all the love I have for you.

At night, after blowing out the candle on your altar, I lay in bed not quite asleep. Awake, shrouded in darkness, the fear of losing another sibling crawls up my leg until I forget how to breathe. In this silent suffering, I think of them and you and how I’ve been blessed with six of the bestest friends anyone could ask for.

But, the fear, it’s always there now. It’s a new type of fear—it has burrowed itself within me and taken the little kid in me as hostage. Because I fear the pain of going through this again.

I think of how we’ve been cursed. We’re not invincible as I thought we were… one will experience the loss of the others, experience truly being alone.

I fear not being a big brother anymore and losing that part of my identity.

I fear the mystery around death and dying. I hope I reunite with you once I’m there.

Someday.