Sometimes you visit me in my dreams. Why, I’m not exactly sure. I wake up in a fog thinking it was real, but then reality hits me like a left hook to the face I should have seen coming: Oh yea, you’re dead.
Because the Universe had another plan for you. And why it involved you killing yourself with a cocktail of drugs and leaving me wondering why, I’m not exactly sure…but maybe that’s the point. Maybe I’m responsible for my own path, and you were responsible for your’s. And it’s just that simple; that’s the only lesson.
When we were kids we would fight like cats and dogs. Over stupid shit. Over video games, over bathroom time, over rules for basketball. “Mom, he’s so mean to me.” “You’ll be the best of friends when you’re older.” She would say. And I believed her. Especially during those times after school when you would walk me to the school bus and when everybody knew me as C’s little sister. Those times…those times established an identity I wish today I never had…Little Sister
When we were older I would talk to you about space and quantum physics and Stephen Hawking. And you would tell me that there are an infinite number of universes. That nothing created is ever destroyed. That nothing really dies: our energy just takes another form, maybe it leaves this universe and goes to another; but energy, life never just disappears.
One of the few times I cried about your death I was worried I didn’t have enough memories of you. And I cried because I was afraid I would forget. Forget the times we would go to the store and buy only candy when we were kids, forget the times we would walk up main street to get ice cream, and forget the times we would ride bikes together. Did that even happen? Did I even have a big brother? Did you love me? Did you want to protect me and stand up for me like a big brother should? You left me alone and with so many questions… Are you the reason for my tough, walled-up exterior of a personality? The reason I’ve befriended so many “big-brother” types? Am I angry because of something that happened in my past, because of you…or just something I wanted to happen, for no particular reason?
When you died, I guess you carried with you a letter from Mom and a stack of books. Books by Hawking, Gould, and Poe. What dead-beat junkie does that? It’s funny, how you still carried with you what you used to be before you became a different person, before you became a slave to your addiction.
So you started coming to me in my dreams. Maybe this was your way of telling me you remember me, you really did exist, I really did have a big brother once. And I guess I started writing back to you blindly over the internet. Knowing that the energy I used to type each letter, write each sentence, publish each post could never be destroyed. That in some shape or form, that information would forever be floating in the inter-webs available to anyone or anything that wanted to find it.
So maybe my writing, my random ramblings to a group of anonymous people online is my way of letting you know, I miss you and I don’t want to lose the memories, so don’t stop visiting me in my dreams.