Jeff's Euology for Sam

Down the stairs and past the hallway
Through a closed door of a working man’s home –
The kind of door that seemed it might give way to the breeze from a loose knob that didn’t quite fit,

I heard my mother cry.
I hoped that beneath the muffled sound of my father’s voice was a truth that would carry her.
A truth that would carry us all through this mess of tears and sleepless nights.

Sorrow is attractive in its own way. When everything around us feels unreal our sorrow speaks to our soul, like part of a movie we thought we wanted to live through, only to discover that behind the makeup, the set, the script, the director - there were regular humans starving for attention, insecure and in denial. That is why I embrace this sorrow. It speaks to our soul. It is real.

So I walked through the grassy field not a mile from my parent’s home where a group of friends and family chose a place to bury the brother I loved. Not one plot, but three – and these three forever tied me to this place of sorrow, the sorrow that spoke to my soul in a way that no one ever had. Time is what I wanted – time alone with my tears and with my brother. My big brother.

With everyone gone I stood over the ground that would soon be emptied to make room for the body that I embraced in the hospital the morning he was found. On the grass I laid down for a short while before footsteps carried a friend my way who spoke to me with love and understanding.

“Just ask sometime,” he said. “Just ask, ‘God, are you there?’”

After a while, I was alone again. With shoes off on hallowed ground I stretched my legs and laid my aching head on the grass. When it was time I crossed my arms over my chest in a peaceful and reverent posture, preparing the place for Sam, who would soon lay beneath. Tired, my eyes rested and the breeze blew in a mist of tears from heaven and I remembered my big brother.

Merrimac, New Hampshire.

We played wiffle ball behind the condo. Sam and I were determined to go pro, but real baseballs were not allowed in the community yard. Still, we could practice our form.

Then we moved to Exeter.

It was our first day in the new home. We biked around the neighborhood and found a new friend. His name was Andrew. Walking into his room and finding his lego collection was like discovering Atlantis.

It was the fall. We raked leaves into a big pile on the yard and took turns running from the driveway and diving into the mess of brown and red and orange and yellow afterlife.

It was the summer. We took our bikes through the woods with Andrew and rode for miles and miles and miles.

It was winter. We went sledding at the country club.

It was junior high school. Mom and Dad took the time to teach us (we were home schooled for that time). They prepared us so well that Sam went on to become the Valedictorian of his high school class.

And then it was high school for Sam. I visited him one day and he took me to French class. I can’t remember for sure, but Phil was probably there, and so was Stef. Sam laid his head on the desk to take a quick nap as Madame went around the room asking questions in French. She came to Sam and scolded him, but he returned with a joke in French, and the whole class laughed. The laughing is all I understood, but Sam was off the hook. Sam was loved.

Then it was high school for both of us and he showed me the ropes. I got into trouble and he bailed me out, so many times.

Then it was cross country season. Sam was the fastest runner on the team, and I was without a doubt the slowest. The contrast is remarkable because I was the slowest even among the girls. But he kept track of my times and congratulated me for improving. He always won MVP at the end of the season.

Then it was college for Sam and Sam and I lost touch. And without him, I lost touch.

Then it was college for both of us and he showed me the ropes again. We drank Yuengling around a bonfire, many, many times with the young men we loved, standing against that wall – Phil. Christian. Tony. Gilch. Jimbo. Peter Rize. Hayden. Medaris. Sunny. Wyant. Klopsic. Trevor. Fournie. Those were the good times.

Then it was Senior Year for Sam and he got sad. He got really sad. We tried to help.

Then it was graduation day and we were all so proud that he saw it through.

It was the day he died. God, I miss him so much. God, I loved him, and I do. I still love him.

And on the grass I opened my eyes to the day we chose his final resting place. I opened my eyes and I opened my mouth, and I said, “God, are you there?”

The sun crept through the clouds and then hid behind them once again. I turned to my left and saw how the grass reached for the sky. All around the world green things were growing and I didn’t know why. I turned to the right and beside a tombstone were delicate purple flowers that tossed quietly in the wind, taking sudden descents towards the earth as tiny drops of rain landed on a stem. But they leapt back upwards toward the sky – how resilient.

I turned my face back to the hiding sun and felt something so familiar. It was the quietness in my soul that I was waiting for. It was the will of all existence, the will that was keeping Sam alive until August 4th. It was the essence of truth and of the life that we must live. It didn’t speak to me. It didn’t appear to me. It just was, and I am waiting to find out more.

I think that Sam was too.

I loved my brother.