There Are No Empty Spaces

I have eleven things to remember my younger brother by.

First, his name. James. His middle name shared with my grandfather. Of Tongan origin. His last name is mine as well.

Second, a memory. Faint and blurry. A day that might have been his funeral. I was so little. I didn’t understand. My family and I, we stood in the cemetery, holding balloons. I loved balloons. Everyone let theirs go. I didn’t want to let mine go. I refused, and my mom yelled at me. I released the balloon, and it floated, up, up and away. I remember crying. Was that day a metaphor? Was it a reminder that no matter how much we love something, we must let it go?

Third, a story. Of a time I don’t remember. My dad told it to me. He had come home from the hospital, crying, pacing, mumbling. Angry. Sad. He said I asked if he was okay. A simple question. One with an obvious answer. He was not okay. But I asked. And he felt better. Not good, but better.

Fourth, a grave. Every year for his birthday, I visit his grave with my family. When I was younger, me and my siblings would climb trees in the cemetery. We were quite the delinquents. The first photograph I ever took was in that cemetery. It was of the leaves of the trees, for a school art project about nature. Once, my grandma visited him before us, and left us snacks. We divided them up, and ate. I still joke about being a grave robber.

Fifth, an explanation. I remember asking how he’d died. I don’t remember the details. I was young when I asked. But I remember learning that his umbilical cord had been tangled. That he’d died as he was born.

Sixth, a photograph. In my living room, there is a photograph. My brother holding my mom’s hand. That was the last thing he did before he died. One squeeze. One moment. Frozen on the mantel.

Seventh, a toy. Three toys really. Stuffed bears. Two brown, for my older brother and I. One white, for my younger brother.

Eighth, my childhood tears. I remember a six year old me, who would cry at the thought that my brother had died before he was born. Who would cry at the grief of death.

Ninth, a grim sense of irony. I remember so many happy days spent in the cemetery. I remember climbing trees and pretending to be centaurs. I remember taking family photos. I remember the odd realization that joy could mingle so easily with grief. I remember becoming accustomed to death.

Tenth, hesitation. The feeling that some things are too personal to ask questions about. The feeling that my own grief should not be spoken of, because I do not understand. I need to understand. Why don’t I understand?

Eleventh, a tradition. Me and my siblings, we would gather spruce cones every year, from a tree that grew near my brother’s grave. We would arranged them in a sort of rectangular wreath around his gravestone. We would line them up perfectly. Some were sticky to the touch. Some were prickly. If we had extra time, we would make wreaths around my great grandmother’s gravestone as well. And my great grandfather’s. My parents never understood why we did this. Why I did this. I didn’t understand either. Then, this year, the tree was gone. We used pine cones. For a month, I couldn’t think of anything except how odd that felt. I remember thinking about how peculiar it was that life so often had to make way for death.

I have eleven things to remember my brother by. None of them are his smile. They aren’t the way he looked. They aren’t memories we shared. I never got to know him. How do I mourn the loss of someone I never knew? Is it even possible?

The empty spaces that everyone seems to describe when speaking of loss are nonexistent. There is not an empty chair at our table, because he never sat in one. There is not an soda can he drank. There is no room where he used to sleep. He never took up enough space to leave any holes behind in my life. All there is, is a full grave.

And a missing tree, of course. Why do I feel so much emptier after the loss of a tree than the loss of my own brother? Why does the loss of a plant plague my mind more than the loss of a human life? Is this how Jonah felt when the gourd withered away?

Am I allowed to talk about this? That’s a stupid question. Of course, I’m allowed to. But am I really? Who can I confide in? Who would not judge me? God knows my problems, but there is no risk in that. My feelings would certainly not get out to the world, and they need the chance to enter the world, in order to leave my head.

My mom would yell at me. She wouldn’t mean to. But she wouldn’t understand. Because I don’t understand. Certainly not enough to explain it. But she would keep asking, and asking. And I would start crying. And then she would get frustrated. And she would yell at me. Because she needs to understand. So I can’t tell her.

My dad would probably laugh, I think. I’m honestly not sure. I don’t think he takes me seriously. Which makes sense. I’m just a kid. What would I know of myself? Of the world?

So, I write. A journal entry about death and grief. Topics my mom would certainly find suitable. By which I mean, topics my mom would get mad at me for writing about. Topics which are the reason I don’t talk to her about my writing anymore.

Maybe someday someone will find this. I hope it’s not my mom. That would suck.

But it’s the risk I take, and I think it keeps me sane.

Everything written up to this point is from a journal entry I wrote when I was fifteen years old(with spelling/grammatical corrections as well as some necessary elaboration). That was two months after the spruce tree disappeared. Surprisingly, it still rings true.