.22 Caliber Letter

Dear David,

 February 27, 2015

 Dear David,

                 I have this shameful secret that hides in the back of my mind. Occasionally it comes boiling up and I have to deal with it. I am filled with rage, sorrow, and even guilt over your death. These emotions churn inside of me; they are burning a pit in my soul and I just can’t deal with them anymore.

 I hate you.

                Why did you make the choices you made? Didn’t you realize that eventually they would catch up to you? You were a smart man, how could you be so damn stupid? You screwed up, why do I need to suffer? I don’t want to imagine what you were thinking when that .22 caliber gun was put to your head and he pulled the trigger. I can tell you that after 23 years, 2 months, and 21 days, your death still devastates me. I’m tired of being “the strong one”, the kid who has to hold it together for her family. I feel compelled to talk to you, to express myself, even if it’s in a letter to a dead man. This might sound harsh and uncaring, but it’s the truth: I need you to accept responsibility for your actions and their horrific consequences.

I really hate you.

                 What does your death mean to me? I’m not sure where to start. Can a person feel love and hate at the same time? How long do you think it will take me to recover from this overwhelming event? I can answer that in one word – NEVER! Even though you had been missing since December 6, 1991, I still held onto a tiny tendril of hope. Wrong. On a cheery, sparkling winter afternoon in January of 1992, the detectives found your body; in that instant our family was broken. Mom, Dad, Jeff, me, our spouses and our kids changed. I morphed into something new, something that would never be the same. That really pisses me off because I liked the old me. Before your murder I wasn’t cynical or bitter, but your choices led to his choices, and that made change inevitable.

 I abolutely hate you...forever.

                 You were my little brother, twelve months younger than I. We were practically twins. You were my childhood, from shared birthday parties to matching clothes. You helped me get rid of my two front teeth, although there was probably an easier method than taking the hood of my coat and slamming my face into the patio. Before we were old enough to trot off to school you used to sneak into my room and we would “read” the dinosaur books under the covers after bedtime. Remember when Jeff was a baby and we used to drag him across the living room by his ankles? It took Mom and Dad forever to figure out why he had this enormous, rug-burned, bald spot on the back of his head. Do you want to know the shitty part in all of this? No one else remembers. Mom is dead. Jeff was tiny. Dad was working. I don’t have anyone left who can reminisce with me. My childhood died the same day you did. That sucks.

 You have no idea how much I hate you right now.

                 You jumped from dinosaurs and digging forts to drugs and drinking non-stop; from friends to fighting. You embarked on this dirty little love affair with alcohol and drugs; you couldn’t or maybe wouldn’t turn away. What happened to the little boy you used to be? What dark hole did you vanish into when you turned fourteen and why didn’t you yell for me to go get a ladder? Jesus Christ, David! Why didn’t you ask for help? Was the “high” worth all of it? Maybe you felt good, but it was hell for me. I’ll always wonder if I should have done more to help you, if I could have done more.

 I hate you with every fiber of being. And maybe…I feel guilty.

                 The police called when they found your frozen body: they needed a photo of your tattoo and your dental records for identification purposes. I took care of it because Mom and Dad were incapacitated with grief. Wait...It gets worse. Before I could reach the volume button, my kids heard the news on the car radio. Try answering this question from a three-year-old, “Why did the bad man shoot my Unca David?” Was I supposed to tell them that you were killed for a $112 drug debt? Too bad you weren’t around; I could have used some help with that.

 I don’t feel anything – I’m numb.

                 The rosary service was okay. I made a tape of songs we listened to as kids: “Wynken, Blynken and Nod”, “Alley Oop”, and “Ahab the Arab”. Mom was happy with my choices. Well, as happy as one can be when you are getting ready to bury your 23 year-old son. I felt better – just a little bit better – for a while. I almost didn’t make through your funeral the next day. In fact, I came close to collapsing when Jeff and I place the pall on your casket. Dizzy with grief and shaking through my sobs, I didn’t hear a word the priest said. I felt empty. The gravesite reminded me of the dirt forts we used to build in the vacant lot, only you wouldn’t be climbing out of this one. All I could focus on were the lifeless flowers for my lifeless brother.

 I don’t really think I hate you…much.

                 I wonder what life would be like if you were still alive. I miss you. In many ways the void created by your absence deepens with each passing year. Just a few weeks ago the entire family met  for Sunday brunch. The conversation turned to the silly things that kids do and I started to giggle. I chuckled and started to ask if you remembered the time you and I stuffed Jeff in the upright piano because we were 100% certain a grizzly bear was outside the house, waiting to devour us. We acted quickly to Save Our Baby Brother! Of course, you weren’t there to answer. No one else remembered. How good is a memory if the two memory makers can’t share it? In that instant the fact that you were gone ripped through me the way a tornado rips through the countryside, leaving destruction and chaos in its wake, and just as I have for the past 23 years, 2 months, and 21 days, I pick up the shattered remains and face the world without my faithful childhood sidekick, my buddy, my brother.

 I don’t hate you.

                 You’ve been dead almost as long as you lived. An entire lifetime has passed since I last saw your familiar face. Next week, on your birthday, I’ll follow a simple routine, one I’ve followed for 24 years: get up, go to work, get off work, stop by the flower shop, and drive to the cemetery. I’ll brush the leaves and snow from your grave. I’ll place one white tulip, a symbol of forgiveness, on your tombstone. I’ll forgive you for making those choices that I alluded to earlier. I’ll beg your forgiveness for leaving you to your demons all those years ago.

 I love you, lots.

XOXOXOXO

Kelly