In 1999, as part of my thesis for my MFA, I wrote an essay about the death of my brother. People ask me about it from time to time, so I thought I'd post it. It was published in The Threepenny Review in the Spring 2001 issue and cited as a Notable Essay in the listings in that year's Best American essays annual (not reprinted, just cited, but that was sufficiently startling when I picked up a copy at Barnes & Noble, scanned the listings, and went "Wait a minute, that's me" ).
If you decide to read it, be prepared for it being l-o-n-g and sad, because it is.
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6 comments:
I read it, and felt it, and have nothing I can say here about it except that it touched me so deeply, beyond words.
In my teens, I too lost a brother in a drowning accident; I am now 61 and still trying to unravel what that did to our lives as a family, and to mine as the big sister.
I wrote about it too: it's not a beautiful, sad essay as yours is, but a small, intensely-felt blog post: http://attica-slowlife.blogspot.com/2010/06/remembering-mark.html.
I can only guess as to why you wrote so openly about this catastrophic event. I'm not sure why I did either, but there has been something freeing about putting it down in words and sending it out there into the unknown; I hope it has been the same for you.
Reaching out in thought towards you.
Thanks, Rachel, for sharing your story as well.
There's no such thing as closure. The hurt just becomes different with time.
I won't lie and say I reached the end, because I didn't. Maybe two-thirds. I couldn't help thinking as i went along that it is impossible for me to understand how this feels. It fills me with sadness.
I appreciate the writing but haven't experienced this sort of thing and although I have a vivid imagination I was lost for how to respond to the article. The nearest I can relate to is in having an older brother, who is still alive, but we are miles apart, as though dead, my father's dying wish driving us further. I would it was otherwise.
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Congratulations for having the piece recognised for the simple power it holds.
Years ago, a colleague was b****ing about the annual discord of where to have Christmas. Very annoyed with her brother and his wife (always blame the wife). I got very quiet, which she took as disapproval. So she defended her irritation. I wasn't disapproving, I was envious and said, 'At least you can fight with your brother. I can't do that.'
Call your brother, David. If you want it to be otherwise, it still might be. Your father's gone, your brother's here. Someone has to go first.
Call your brother.
This has so much complexity, depth and feeling. Your analysis of the grief and the 'coming to knowledge' of so many parts, pieces and loose ends of your life and your brother's impact in it is one of the best I've ever read.
This passage, in particular, speaks such devastating truth and wisdom it is almost scary..."I have a certain emotional resilience from knowing that there is nothing that can happen that will ever hurt that much again, hurt with that kind of surprise, that depth of injustice, that infinite degree of brutal randomness and incontrovertible fact. But this resilience is complicated by a fear of caring — since caring is the root of the hurt of losing — and traces of an intractable loneliness.
Yes, it's very hard not to weaken - isn't it?
Your story is so beautifully written and so touching, I am moved to tears.Thank you for sharing your story Melanie, as well as your very obvious talent for writing.
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