Last night we had old friends over for dinner. I'm learning to speak about my brother's death in a way that seems honest yet respectful, sad but not morbid or compulsive. We began with catching up, then the woman and I talked about our childhood and mutual friends, and their recent move, and then I briefly brought up my brother and what was happening about gaining administratorship. I had to do this as they are witnesses for the hearing. But I didn't speak about it more than necessary. They feel awkward because they were close to my parents, but not my brother. They knew him only as a child, really.
So the evening was pleasant and I did not become upset. I have some distance now from the events, and after spending the night before in the emergency room, a sense that I need to take care of myself and keep the stuff around my brother carefully tucked in a corner of the room in my mind. Don't know is my mantra. I'm never going to know what happened to him, what he was thinking, whether he was mentally ill or just fatigued with illness, if he had meaningful connections to others or not. He kept the door shut to his life, and there is no key to open it.
I was happy and grateful to keep my guests at the forefront of consciousness. I don't want to feel I'm "using" them in any way. They are good people, with kind feelings and joy in the everyday of life. I appreciate that quality more and more as I age. My friend has had five surgeries in the last three years yet has no complaints. She's attempting to overcome a dependence on painkillers, and is brave and open about it. Her husband is her staunch supporter. They love their daughter and respect her privacy and independence. They are what are called decent people.
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