I believe this is the day a year ago that my brother killed himself. His body was not found until October 28, but it was badly decomposed, and the last check he wrote was September 11. He suffered from paranoia and I'm guessing the anniversary of 9/11 played into his disturbed mind. I have wondered and stayed up nights trying to figure out what his suicide note revealed. I have waited for answers. And now I'm at piece with the mystery of his mind, his life and his death. HIS. Not mine to dissect. I have no right to KNOW. I will live with uncertainty, as I do daily and hourly anyway. Mostly I'm comfortable with it, sometimes I'm anxious and desperate.
Now there is only missing his being on this beautiful planet. His ashes are in my guest bedroom (little irony there). I will scatter them soon in the woods, where he had his happiest times as a child. I am in a strange position, since I am the only one grieving him. My sadness is solitary. But my love is steadfast. I loved him as my companion in childhood, I loved him when his suffering caused us great pain, I loved him when he sobered up, I loved him whenever he chose to see us, I loved him through the last thirteen years of his life, when he wouldn't see or speak to me. There is no diminishment of the love now. He is lodged permanently in my heart. And how he died or lived is not connected to that love in any way. The love just is.
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