Thinking of You

On a warm summer day, my cousin died.  Hit by a train, his body ripped in two.   You don’t have to pretend you care.  Very few people do.

His death left behind so many questions that, nearly three years later, remain unsolved.  Questions varied and chilling, questions involving the words murder, suicide, cover up.  Questions that I know, deep down, will never be answered.

Death is messy.  It splatters all over a family, and no amount of hand washing makes the feeling go away.  You feel dirty.  You feel incomplete.  You feel sick and hot and tired.  Later, you realize it’s the tears. 

I know too much about death to get lost in the little occurrences in life.  I don’t regret what I do because I don’t do things I know I’ll regret.  I don’t lose myself in what feels good, only what feels right; sometimes, these are two very different things. 

It took three deaths in two years to make me realize the meaning of time.  Of patience.  Of permanence.  Of grief.  Depression can cripple you; death erases you.  One does not solve the other, merely creates a plague.  Suicide.  Do you want your family to follow you? 

Tonight, I sit here thinking of my cousin.  Early twenties, lots of life, even more problems than me.  His last months were spent with more drama and pain than anyone can imagine; his death, more than a tragedy, was only a misplaced answer to a prayer no one had the courage to utter.

Tonight, I think of my cousin.  I think about the whistle of a train, wonder what it sounds like for someone to die. 

Around me, people think about sex, about homework, about drunken mistakes and regrets.  Problems that seem like the end of the world to someone who has never seen someone lowered into a hole and watched it get filled with dirt.

But tonight I think of my cousin.  I think of his smile when we were kids.  Of the way he said my name. 

Tonight, dear cousin, I’m thinking of you.  I hope you’ve found your peace.  Someday our family will finally find it too.