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(You should really read my 3/1/09 posting first, or read it after this one)

I’ve been trying to avoid this all day, but I said that would write it so here it goes.

Let me tell you about my brother. Poet (real name no joke) was born in Denver Colorado.

He liked redheads, Japanese beers, and Saturday morning cartoons. He always made me feel like I was his favorite, even though he loved everyone in the family equally.

(Damn, I’m already starting to cry)

He married his high school sweet heart (a redhead), and had a daughter, which he named Lilith.

After my accident he gave me a voice to speak with by giving me a Dynavox (which I still have).

And no matter what was happening, he always had a cool head. I remember when he had ripped off he ring finger’s fingernail. All he did was look at it and said, “Is this bad? Maybe I should go to the hospital.” Maybe?! I was almost gagging it was so gross and painful looking.

My bro was big into hunting, just like my dad. My brother could make some of the best deer sausages you ever tasted.

My brother’s passion was swimming. He would swim in a pool for hours until he couldn’t see because of the chlorine. I’ve had a fear of pools ever since my brother’s death.

I remember I was sitting in my beanbag chair reading when my dad came in, and told me that something bad had happened to my brother. He said that he had fallen by his pool. He told me that my brother had hit his head on one of the wooden lounge chairs and that he was really badly hurt (aren’t you supposed to drown with pools?). I was in shock. No way could this happen to my brother, he’s immortal, how could this happen? Then I remember it was April First. I smiled and pointed to my dad, and mouthed the words April fools. A look came over my father’s face (I hate to say it, but I think it was hate) and he said, “No, it’s no joke Copper. He may die.”

I felt horrible. Not just because my brother was in the hospital, but because I had laughed at him, thinking his accident was some stupid joke. Some cruel joke. But it wasn’t. It was for real. He had a major skull fracture with blood on the brain (blood is toxic to the brain I learned, It kills brain cells).

I was at the hospital within 14 hours. I remember walking in with my dad and mom. My aunt and uncle were already in my brothers room (those emergency patient rooms are surprisingly big). My brothers wife couldn’t come because she was taking care of the kid and she was in New York. I stood back, not really wanting to go into the room, afraid of what I might see. My father went in first. He hugged my aunt, and then stood at the end of the bed. He didn’t say a word and he just walked out of the room. I have never seen, or have seen since, my father act that way.

My uncle and father went to get lunch. I stayed with my aunt in the room, while my mom went to the bathroom (and somewhere else cause she didn’t come back for an hour). I looked at my brother. His eyes were closed, and he looked normal. I had assumed he had hit his forehead, but he had hit the back of his head. I knew he would be okay, he looked just fine. After about twenty minutes of awkward staring at my aunt (I didn’t have any pen or paper on me…), my brother opened his eyes. I was so relieved, but I also had an odd feeling in my gut, I still remember that feeling. I came up to my brother, he looked at me, and then through me (I’m not even sure if he was awake, I have an uncle who sleeps with his eyes open sometimes). My aunt looked at him and said, “Poet, are the angels comin?” I looked at her and thought to myself that that was one of the stupidest things I’d ever heard, he was going to be fine. Then the machine starts beepin. Two nurses and a doctor came in. They moved me away, and started doing stuff to him. To make a long story a little less long, my brother died while I waited in a hall, crying.

He was almost 25. He was- no he is, a loving father, son, husband, and brother. He didn’t believe in heaven or hell (and neither do I) but I truly hope we are both wrong and that he is in heaven.

I hate true stories.