Memories in D Major
The last time we spoke was at your mother’s wedding, and even though it was only over the phone it was as if time hadn’t really passed between the last time I saw you before you, your mom, and your younger brother moved across the country to start life anew. And I was happy for you because after everything you and your mom have been through, both individually and together, and what I’ve been through with you both I was excited at the prospect of you getting a chance to start over somewhere new. Not a clean slate per se; however, some place that wasn’t just a site of trauma for us all.
I can’t say that I remember much of the first few years of your life beyond the fact that you were born, you cried a lot, and you were sick a lot. Which, I suppose, is to be expected of someone born prematurely. That said, once you were old enough to crawl and climb around everywhere we were close. Closer than I had been to your other uncles. You were essentially the younger brother (and brother overall) that I never had. And that’s something I’ll always miss.
Before you, I really only had your mom. Throughout my life, she was the only one who tried to understand me and allowed me to be myself. And I remember how close you and her were growing up. Which would seem obvious as she’s your mother; however, our mother — your grandmother — was never that way with us. She was harder on us than she had been on your other uncles. For a time, our only reprise was Aunty, who was protective of you also; however, your grandmother kicked her out the way she did with you and your mother, the way she did with your uncle who’s older than me, and the way she did with me more recently.
I often think about how at one apartment we lived in with your grandmother and one of your younger uncles, you argued against both my younger brother (your uncle) and grandmother about something related to how emotional you were and then you went and cried, and I just hugged you and assured you things would be okay. That was probably the first time I fully realized that how I was raised, to yell at and beat children for “talking back” and “not listening,” is abusive. I knew that hitting and/or yelling at you wouldn’t help, and I realized I wish I’d had someone try to be compassionate and empathetic whenever I was angry or upset instead of humiliating and abusing me until I locked my emotions away.
I keep thinking about the time we were in the shelter together with your grandmother, and how you were my only respite, especially after your uncle came to live with us and he and your grandmother would argue almost every single day. We didn’t talk much; however, it was comforting to be able to just sit in silence with you the times we had silence.
I also remember your suicide attempt, and how I was in shock while having to stay calm for both you and your mother much the same as during the phone call when your mother told me what happened to you. The key differences were this time I cried, and this time you weren’t here with me.
I’m not sure how long it’ll be before I can accept that you aren’t here with me after only being with me for twenty-one years. I never considered I’d lose you or anyone I loved before I died. And it’s that that is the second most painful part of this.
I didn’t expect it.
I didn’t plan for it.
I never considered it.
And I always try to consider every single possibility for any interaction and relationship I have with anyone. You were my biggest oversight, and I apologize for not doing more to be involved in your life.
I wanted to give you the kind of time and space from everyone and everything that was beneficial for me; however, I feel like I just became an absentee family member who thought they knew what was right for you. And maybe it’s the shock and grief talking, and maybe you didn’t think negatively of my absence at all. I’ll never know.
You deserved much more than life ever gave you, and, miraculously, through it all you never hardened your heart. It was always a wonder how you did it. I don’t know how much I helped; however, I hope I helped a little.
There was always something particularly bright about you. Your mom knew, which is why y’all were basically best friends. A parent/child relationship many, myself included, can only wish to have (though, in a way, I did have that with your mom since she was my mother in many ways as well). Aunty knew, which is why she protected you so earnestly anytime your youngest uncle used to pick fights with you any time you and I played together when we were younger. I certainly knew, which is why I clung so close to and protected you whenever you were around me. And I’m sure everyone who had the pleasure of knowing you well knew it, too. No one could really ignore it.
You were talented from brilliant a young age. The time you flooded the apartment we lived in comes to mind first. It was your first defining moment, and quite the unforgettable one at that. Then when you first picked up a pencil and started drawing, it was undeniable the talent that was brimming from you. It was always amazing to see you get lost in the page as you drew as if guided by some benevolent, invisible muse with whom you were always in sync. You were great at video games and took a real liking to Sonic the Hedgehog. And an even more talented musician (I was honestly surprised by how much I love your music).
I’m not sure what else to say, so I’ll say this: I won’t think of this as you’re dead because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to bring myself to do so. So, to quote the late great DMX in his intro to the video for “Miss You” by Aaliyah (another tribute, I may add), “I have trouble accepting the fact that you’re gone. So I won’t. It’ll be like we went for a while without seeing each other.”
I’m not sure when we’ll meet again; however, I promise to honor you by doing my best to be as kind and genuine and compassionate and empathetic and understanding and loving as you’ve always been, and protect the people I care about and love as fiercely as you did.
You’re a true inspiration, and I’m sorry that the world didn’t always know how to hold you in its arms correctly.
I love you.
I miss you.
Sincerely,
Keilly
