My little brother died when I was nine years old.
He had been sick for two years.
The cortisone he was given made his legs swell and his stomach bloat.
Eventually he could no longer walk. He was six years old and my parents had to push him in a stroller.
I was embarrassed by him.
I made fun of him.
He died from an infection after surgery.
My parents thought it best that I not attend the funeral.
I felt tremendous guilt. I thought my teasing and resentment had caused his death.
I began a series of nightly rituals in order to atone for his death.
I would ask forgiveness for all my sins against him. Then I would hold my breath for as long as I could.
I was trying to bring him back.
I spoke to no one of his death.
When my friends asked about the picture on my parents’ dresser, I would tell them it was my cousin.
In the years that followed, the mere mention of his name sent my parents into despair. When I sensed a conversation moving in that direction, I quickly changed the subject.
I didn’t understand how life could go on for everyone else.
Suffering was the last way my parents could love their child.
Decades have passed since my brother died and we still don’t talk about him.
