This is the second of three posts in which I try to deal with my brother’s death. They are Danny, Acceptance and Goodbye.

I think the concept of CPT (Colored People’s Time) is a well known one, in which black people are unable to get anywhere on time. What isn’t as well known is HPT (Hispanic People’s Time), in which latinos suffer from the same chronic tardiness. Even a funeral isn’t enough to compel us to arrive on time.

The extended Diaz family arrived at the funeral home about 45 minutes late. Ma’s fellow churchgoers were already there, as were several soldiers. My father wasn’t even in the building yet and I saw his face contorted in pain. We were divided; my mother and brother wanted to see Danny’s body, while my father and I refused. Part of that decision came from Danny’s final wishes being disobeyed; he did not want to be gawked at in a coffin. He wanted to be in an urn, but my mother and new sister-in-law did not abide by that wish.

The other part of me that didn’t want to see him thought back to Nadia’s father funeral; the image of him in the coffin was burned into my memory, overriding the other images I had of him when he was alive. I didn’t want that to happen again.

At the last moment, I changed my mind. I don’t know what caused it, but when Nadia extended her hand to walk me into the room where he was kept, I took her hand and followed.

That’s when it hit me. The hope that this was all a terrible prank, or some nightmare that I couldn’t wake from, washed away all at once. His flag-covered coffin was in front of me, and I put my hand on my chest as all the air was sucked out of it. I had been as strong as I could for my family, but at that moment I let it all go. I stood over his now mannequin-like body while hearing my mother wail, “why didn’t you call me?” over and over again (in Danny’s last days he was fighting terrible bouts of rage; whenever they came on he would call her and she would talk him down) and my brother angrily mutter, “that’s not my brother in there” (I believe he was angry that Danny’s wishes were disobeyed).

A strange calmness came over me after a few minutes. I’m not sure what it was, but I was suddenly able to look at his body without bursting into tears.

A little while later, the funeral attendents closed the casket and ushered in everyone else. At that time I spoke to the soliders who were in attendance and to friends and family. I spoke to my new sister-in-law Nilsa for the first time since they were married. She appeared drained, having been in the funeral home with Danny all day. She also seemed worried about meeting my family, as rumors had started that she was responsible for his death. My feelings on this are mixed, but I have not made up my mind yet.

Toward the end of the night, the man in charge of the funeral arrangements (Patrick) played a slideshow of Danny’s life. Everyone was in tears. I couldn’t sit through the whole thing.

As Nad and I went to drop her mom off at the hotel, I said, “with the viewing behind me, tomorrow should be a lot easier.” Her mom answered, “No, it will be much harder.”

I didn’t believe her, but she was right.

Concluded in Goodbye.

This is the first of three posts in which I try to deal with my brother’s death. They are Danny, Acceptance and Goodbye.

My brother Danny, who as my best man years ago gave a touching speech that moved everyone to tears, came back from his second tour in Iraq three weeks ago. Moments after arriving at Fort Stewart, met by our mom, grandmother, and his girlfriend, he called me. We got to chat for a little bit. I congratulated him, told him that I am happy he returned home safely, and that I loved him.

In the weeks that followed, he married his girlfriend and moved into a trailer near post. His next plans were to buy the washer and dryer that they needed, put together a nice little network of gadgets (that I was going to help with!), and he met up with a lawyer to adopt his wife’s kids.

Two weeks ago he called me, but I had no signal. I called him back later on, but got his voicemail. I left a message saying that I’d try again later.

This Friday that just passed, my dad called me around noon. In a choked up voice, he told me that he had bad news. I knew that sound in his voice, that sound that I hated, that sound that he is about to tell me something terrible. I had half a mind to just hang up so that I wouldn’t hear it, but I didn’t. Now I wish I had.

“Danny killed himself.”

I can’t find the words to describe what I felt. I can only tell you that my mouth dropped, I couldn’t speak. Hot tears poured out of my eyes. All I could squeeze out of my throat was, “What?”

…

I thought I could write about this, but I can’t. I’m not ready. What can I possibly say? Danny was my brother for 25 years. Now he’s gone. He took himself away from me. I’ll never talk to him about all of our hobbies again. I’ll never hear that infectious laugh of his again (if his laugh didn’t coax you into laughing, then his jokes would). He was incredibly charismatic; not liking Danny wasn’t an option. When he was happy, no one could appear as elated as he was. He could imitate “the most annoying sound in the world” perfectly. He was a damn fine person, one I was proud to call my brother. But he took himself away from me. Now all I have are pictures that make me cry when I see them. I can only remember the good things for a short time, until the pain comes washing in.

I can’t begin to imagine what this is doing to my parents. My mom is standing strong, mostly for her need to not worry her mother. But her armor has chinks in it, and when one is exposed then she begins to fall apart. My dad… I didn’t expect him to be so unable to keep it together. It hurts him so much and he has no ability to hide it. I feel so bad for them; I can’t possibly understand what it is like for them to bury their son.

My other brother Carlos was pulled out of Iraq to attend his funeral. He should be stateside tonight.

This really hurts. I thought I would be able to write intelligently about this, but I can only write the thoughts that stream out.

I just wish this was a bad dream, or even a cruel prank. Anything that would bring him back.

Continued in Acceptance.

Yesterday, I almost missed the opportunity to wish two very special friends a very happy anniversary. I hope they spent it well.

We miss you!

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