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

Perhaps to make up for the previous day’s lateness, we all got to the church 45 minutes early. Family and friends were ushered into the main room while the pallbearers were pulled aside for instructions. My father, brother, uncle, two cousins and I had a tough time listening to the proper way to wheel the coffin out at the end of the ceremony.

Pastor Wayne, from my mom’s church, officiated the ceremony. I was getting nervous; days before Ma asked me to give the eulogy. I really didn’t want to do that, and I tried to get out of it by reminding her of the “best man rotation” we had going. Danny was mine, I was Carlos’, so it seemed to make sense that since Carlos has been robbed of the opportunity of being Danny’s best man, he should give the eulogy. She agreed, but then added, “but you are his brother, so you are going to speak too!”

I knew what was going to happen, which is why I didn’t want to get up there and speak. After Carlos gave his touching eulogy, made up of stories from our childhood and with a touch of anger at Danny’s passing, I was called up. I don’t think I even got three sentences out. I only recall squeezing out “I wish as I was as strong as Carlos,” “I’m sorry” and “I can’t do this” between moments of tear-filled silence.

The slideshow from the night before played (I still couldn’t watch it), and then Pastor Wayne finished the ceremony. I couldn’t bring myself to say the prayer along with him, as it sounded to me like, “We’ve got Danny’s soul. You wanna see him again? Join our church.”

The six of us wheeled him out into the area in front of the church. The Patriot Guard stood outside, as they had the night before.

Given the nature of Danny’s death, I was worried that the Army would abandon him. I can’t tell you how happy I am that they did no such thing.

We all watched the Honor Guard line up and ready their rifles. My mom and I jumped as the 21-Gun Salute went off (I’ve seen it done in movies, but was not prepared for how loud it was). My brother, although in a civilian suit, proudly saluted the coffin the entire time. I saw a perfect stranger cry for us. I even saw a wheelchair-bound member of the Patriot Guard prop himself up with the flag to stand at attention.

The scene was moving, but I kept it all together; that is, until SGT Simmons of the Honor Guard played Taps. I couldn’t stop myself from weeping.

Members of the Honor Guard slowly and precisely folded the flag that draped Danny’s coffin. When done, they handed it to Nadia. In her Class As, she handed it to Nilsa on behalf of the Army. She repeated this for both of my parents (who were very happy that she was the one to present to them).

It was very hot and humid as this was going on, as it typically is in Florida. As soon as the ceremony ended, the clouds above tore open and a heavy downpour started.

This has been a trying time for my family. It is going to take a long time before we fully come to terms with this, but the healing process has already begun. Danny’s death brought the extended Diaz family together for the first time in over a decade.

Thank you for letting me take a break from the normal trivialities I talk about here so that I can get this out, and thank you for reading and for your kind words. This blog’s normal foolishness will resume, starting with the next post.

I love you Danny, you will be missed.

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.