A Dead Brother’s Birthday

~don’t ask me to celebrate, nor mourn~

Image on Pixabay by kalhh

Rarely do I remember birthdays, nor do I expect those close to me to do a hoopla over mine. If it happens, I’m touched. But one birthday I cannot forget. My brother’s. People find it strange, but I don’t remember the day of his death. He was, after all, your guardian, they say. My tormentor, I want to reply. But I have journeyed too far to care. The other day my youngest sibling Ziggy messaged me — ‘It’s Big Brother’s birthday, custodian of our legacy. His life should be celebrated!’ Needless to point out, Stockholm Syndrome still has him in it’s deadly grip.

What should I celebrate? Lives of our loved ones are celebrated. Lives of larger than life individuals are celebrated: icons, humanitarians, leaders, scientists and artists. Lives of unsung heroes should be celebrated who bloom in oblivion at peace with themselves, the earth and the universe. I refer to the dedication of those who quietly serve and humbly go to the great veldt above knowing their lives were not little, nor did they cause lives of others to wither and rot.

You know, one says oh yes, I’ve dealt with childhood issues, they no longer haunt me, water under the bridge, God has been kind, life has been beyond comfortable, I’ve molted out of many skins etc. etc. At one level it’s true.