When A Brother Isn't Really A Brother

After the pastor spoke his final words, they released the doves into the sky. The doves. We call them doves. They’re just pigeons, the same birds that annoy us and beg us for food. But when they’re pretty and trained, we watch them with awe.

I watched them fly for as long as possible until the sun blinded my eyes. It was hot and bright outside. I looked over at my parents and studied their faces. I couldn’t tell if it was tears or sweat dripping down my father’s cheek. I imagined how difficult it was that the weather didn’t match their somber grief. Our clothes were black and dusty, making the suffocating heat unbearable.

Eventually, everyone began to leave the gravesite. Friends and family walked by us to give their condolences. My father couldn’t stop crying, but my mother had stopped days ago. She was stoic, but even I was surprised at her stony, blank expression when my aunt told her how good of a mother she had been. It was hard having a brother who didn’t outlive his mother.

I looked down at my boots, now covered with a fine layer of dirt. I wanted to reach down and wipe them off, but I couldn’t look away from the words inscribed on the gravestone.

Tony Marquez
Loving son, brother, husband, father.

            But the gravestone wasn’t big enough to tell the whole story. It only said that my brother thought he was loving, though he didn’t try as hard as he should’ve. It did not say he was a father who never provided enough for his children because he was too busy still being childish. It did not say that he was a husband who was not as loyal as he had promised. It did not say that he was a son who took advantage of his mother’s love and father’s money. And it did not say that he was a brother who stopped protecting his sister when she reached a certain age. So, all I could say was that it was hard having a brother who was gone too young.

 

            After the last car drove away, we finally went home. My best friend, Sonny, was already at our house, preparing our dinner plates. The only ones who even had an appetite to eat were my brother’s kids. They were still a bit too young to understand that their dad wasn’t coming home. All they knew was that their mother was too sad to feed them.

            My parents went upstairs to their room after dinner. My sister-in-law laid down on the couch, sobbing silently. She cried herself to sleep most of the time. My brother caused her so much pain while he was alive, but never as much pain as he caused with his death.

            His daughter was three years old, and his son was almost one. He couldn’t talk, and he was starting to try to walk. They did most things alone. Sonny and I watched them play for a little bit, but then I got preoccupied with cleaning the sink in the kitchen.

            My brother never really helped with the housework. He used to help me when we were younger. But the older we got, the less he was at home, and the few times he was home, all he did was make a bigger mess. I was always the one cleaning up the dirtiness.

            There was a stain on the sink that I couldn’t get out. I’m not sure how much time I spent scrubbing it. I grabbed bleach from under the sink and scrubbed harder, but it wouldn’t come out. No matter how hard I tried, that one spot wouldn’t get clean. I scrubbed and scrubbed until everything else in the kitchen glistened, but that one stubborn spot just stayed dirty.

            Suddenly, Sonny was pulling the gloves off my hand and pulling me away from the sink. I didn’t realize I was crying until I collapsed into her arms. She held me as I cried and handed me tissues.           

            “I couldn’t get it clean, Sonny,” I said.

            “I know,” she said, “It’s okay.”

            “I’ll never clean it all the way off. It’ll never be clean.”

            “Don’t worry. It will.”

            “It’s so hard,” I said, crying again. “It’s hard having a brother who was never really a brother at all.”

            “I know.”

            I don’t know how much longer we sat on the floor. It was long enough for me to fall asleep because I woke up lying on the couch opposite my sister-in-law. I sat up and found Sonny cleaning the living room. My brother’s daughter spilled something on the floor, and Sonny ran to clean it up. She was always here, helping me clean and holding me up. I didn’t know if I could ever thank her or show her how much that meant to me. It was also hard to have a sister who was not really a sister.

            Suddenly, my brother’s son started crying. Sonny was in another room, so I got up to see what was wrong. I picked him up and wiped off his tears.

            “It’s okay,” I cooed. “You’re gonna be fine.”

            I figured he must be tired. It had been a long day of no naps for him. I tried rocking him and soothing him. “You’re okay, don’t worry. You’re gonna grow to be big and strong and take care of the people who love you, aren’t you, little guy?”

            He just stared at me with his big brown eyes. I knew he probably had no idea what I was saying, but at least he wasn’t crying. I put him back down on the rug by his mother, so I could get him some food.

            As soon as I walked out of the room, I heard him start crying again. I grabbed one of his bottles and started walking back to the living room. I stopped before I walked in. His sister was trying to help him stop crying. She tried picking him up to put him on her lap, but she wasn’t strong enough to do it alone. She looked up at her mom with pleading eyes. But she just looked blankly out the window and turned her body away. My brother’s daughter looked helpless, and her shoulders slouched further down. She closed her eyes and started to sing to her little brother. I realized it must be hard having a brother who would have to grow up without a father.