EVERY TIME I GET DRUNK I TELL PEOPLE I LIVE AT AN INCORRECT ADDRESS. EVERY TIME I FINISH A BOOK I SIT STONE-STILL IN ATTEMPT TO SOAK UP THE ENTIRETY OF WRITTEN INFORMATION. EVERY TIME I THINK ABOUT DEATH I HAVE A PANIC ATTACK.
I’VE ALWAYS FIGURED I’D EITHER DIE YOUNG OR LIVE FOREVER.
I CANNOT BEGIN TO WRAP MY SMALL BRAIN AROUND THE VAST AND UTTERLY UN-EXPLAINABLE VACUUM THAT IS ‘DEATH’. HAVING NOT DIED MYSELF, THE CONCEPT OF ETERNAL DARKNESS IS ALTOGETHER UNREACHABLE.
THIS HAS NOT BEEN AN EASY PIECE TO WRITE.
I CANNOT GRACEFULLY OVERCOME THE FEAR OF MY IMMINENT NONEXISTENCE. MY FEAR IS NOT UNEASE, NOT THE SWEATY NIGHTMARES OF THE MAN I LOVED CONFESSING TO MIXED EMOTIONS. IT IS THE TYPE OF FEAR THAT STARTS WHEN I AM UNCONSCIOUS. IT ROOTS ITSELF DEEP INTO MY WANDERING MIND AND SUFFOCATES ME WHILE I’M DREAMING LIKE HANDS AROUND MY THROAT. I AWAKEN TO THE DEPRIVATION OF AIR. IT IS NOT THAT I CANNOT BREATHE BUT THAT I AM ACTUALLY CHOKING. I AM BEING TORTURED FROM THE INSIDE. MY POOR SWEET SUBCONSCIOUS HAS FALLEN PREY TO OTHER SIDE AND SHE GOES NUMB. THE TERROR PERMEATES THROUGH MY BLOODSTREAM AND PUMPS ADRENALINE THROUGH MY VERY CORE. CONSIDERING DEATH SETS ME INTO A STATE OF HYSTERIA.
I TOOK TO OCCUPYING MY ACTIVE MIND BY FANTASIZING ABOUT THE OPPOSITE OF DEAD - THE UNDEAD. I BECAME OBSESSED WITH ZOMBIES. I HAD A DETAILED, ELABORATE PLAN OF ESCAPE SHOULD THE ANNIHILATION OF THE HUMAN SPECIES OCCUR WHILE I LIVED IN MANHATTAN. I CONSIDERED HOW POTENTIALLY GREAT A WARDROBE I WOULD HAVE IF I COULD STEAL PRADA DURING AN APOCALYPSE - BUT I’D NEED A STREET AND FOREST FRIENDLY TEAMMATE OF COURSE, AND FOR THAT MY FIRST CHOICE WAS ALWAYS JOEL.
HE WAS THE COUSIN I LOVED TO HATE. I DARED HIM TO EAT A BIG FAT JUICY SLUG FOR FIVE DOLLARS ON THE GRASSY HILL OF MY SUBURBAN BACK YARD. HE ATE IT - SWALLOWED IT WHOLE, GULPED THE GASTROPOD LIKE GRAPE JUICE ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
I NEVER PAID HIM.
HE TAUGHT ME HOW TO PROPERLY TAKE CARE OF AN ORCHID. HE WOULD ENCOURAGE ME TO TAKE TIME TO VISIT NATURE. HE WOULD TALK TO ME ABOUT THE SOIL, THE FERNS. HE’D POINT TO THE TYPE OF MUSHROOM THAT WAS EDIBLE, THE TYPE OF BERRY THAT WAS POISONOUS.
I’D COME HOME FROM COLLEGE AND WE WOULD SIT ON HIS SAGGING SECOND FLOOR BALCONY, PASSING A JOINT. WE’D WALK DOWN TO THE FARMERS MARKET AND RETURN WITH ARMFULS OF FRESH VEGETABLES. HE WOULD FLY INTO A SHORT-WINDED TANGENT AND ANIMATE A DISCUSSION ABOUT WHAT AN AMAZING DISH HE WOULD MAKE WITH THOSE VEGETABLES.
TOGETHER, WE WERE THE BLACK SHEEP. THE RELATIVES THAT DYED THEIR HAIR, PIERCED THEIR EARS, TATTOOED THEIR BODY. WE WERE THE OBTUSELY COMPETITIVE GAME PLAYERS, THE CROWD FAVORITES, THE THANKSGIVING FEASTERS. I COULD BE A FUNCTIONING POT HEAD, HE COULD BE A FUNCTIONING POT HEAD.
BUT HE COULDN’T BE A FUNCTIONING ALCOHOLIC.
JOEL HAD A DISEASE. THE ADDICTION, THE DEPENDENCE, THE FIXATION, THE ENSLAVEMENT.
I WAS UNCOMFORTABLE, HESITANT - CONSUMED BY MY DISDAIN. THE PATIENCE AND LOVE REQUIRED TO STAND BY SOMEONE WHO CONTINUES TO MAKE THE SAME DETRIMENTAL, LIFE ALTERING, DEADLY DECISIONS TIME AND TIME AGAIN - IT IS THE PATIENCE OF AN ANGEL, OF A MOTHER. A PATIENCE I DID NOT POSSESS.
IT IS LIKE THEY SHOW IT IN THE MOVIES. THE FUNERAL HOME IS COZY LIKE A GRANDMOTHER'S HOUSE. THERE IS WALLPAPER AND WALL TO WALL CARPET. THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THE ROOM BUT THERE IS A MUFFLED SILENCE. YOUR COUSIN STARTS TO HOWL. HE STARTS TO WAIL. HE’S LOST HIS BEST FRIEND, HIS BROTHER. YOUR SISTER IS GRIPPING HER PREGNANT BELLY, PULLING AT YOUR EMBROIDERED BLACK LACE DRESS. YOU DON’T MOVE BUT INSTEAD YOU NUMBLY GIVE IN TO THE TUG, ROCKING A LITTLE TOWARDS HER AND THEN BACK TOWARDS THE MAHOGANY CASKET.
HE’S HORIZONTAL, EXACTLY THE WAY HE WOULD FALL ASLEEP AFTER A SUCCESSFUL THANKSGIVING INDUCED COMA. HE’D ASK YOU TO MASSAGE HIS SCALP AND YOU’D OBLIGE EVEN THOUGH YOU KNEW HE DIDN’T BELIEVE IN SHAMPOO. HE’D FALL ASLEEP.
HIS HANDS WERE CROSSED OVER HIS FAVORITE BLUE PHISH T-SHIRT. HIS LIPS A SHADE OF GREEN-GRAY THAT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS EXPIRED. HIS EYEBROWS ARE BACK TO BUSHY AND YOU ALMOST SMILE REMEMBERING HOW YOU USED TO PLUCK HIS EYEBROWS BLOODY ON THE BACK PORCH IN THE SUMMERTIME.
I VOMITED IN THE RESTROOM. I GREETED EVERY PERSON IN THE FOUR HOUR LINE WHO HAD COME TO SAY GOODBYE. WHILE PEOPLE EXPRESSED THEIR CONDOLENCES FOR MY EXTREME LOSS, I FOUND MYSELF SAYING I WAS SORRY FOR THEIRS. A LOSS OF JOEL WAS A LOSS FOR EVERYONE HE KNEW.
"YOU CAN DIG YOUR HANDS THROUGH THE SOIL. I PROMISE IT’S JUST A PLANT." I PLEADED WITH THE TSA OFFICER AT HANCOCK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.
"IS IT WEED?" SHE JOKED.
"I WISH." I MUMBLED, COLLECTING MY PLANT IN IT’S PLASTIC BAG.
I CRADLED MY SUCCULENT FROM SYRACUSE TO JFK AIRPORT, WEDGING IT BETWEEN MY LEGS FOR THE BUMPY CAB RIDE HOME. I TOOK THE OPPORTUNITY TO GOOGLE THE APPROPRIATE CARE FOR THE PLANT I HAD CHOSEN TO ADOPT AFTER JOEL’S FUNERAL SERVICE.
"SEMPERVIVUM" THE WEBSITE STATED, "LITERALLY MEANS LIVE FOREVER."