Picture Heaven, Full of Peeled Oranges

My brother is haunting me.

Sometimes he haunts me as a dead thing, his form rigid and hollow; hands made of static cling and a lingering scent of wet soil. Other times, when my brother haunts me, he stands tall, puffs out his chest, and helps our mom bring in groceries from the car. He carries them all in one trip. He even puts it all away, cold items first. And once everything is stored in the right place, he grabs an orange, takes my hand, and leads me outside. We sit on the curb as he peels the orange and splits it. He puts the pieces of rind in his pocket and gives me the bigger half.

Before he died almost everything I owned belonged to my brother first. From toys to books to clothes. I remember he had this green T-shirt with the Mountain Dew logo printed on the front, and he thought it was the coolest thing he owned. He wore it as often as he could. I couldn’t wait for him to outgrow it so I could get a chance to wear it, because I also thought it was the coolest thing he owned. But of course, I did. Before he died, most of my ideas came from my brother too.

He died in that shirt.

To this day I still can’t drink Mountain Dew.

Before he died, our step-dad used to take my brother hunting down at the creek. They’d stay for hours and mostly come home empty-handed. Or at least I thought they did. The truth is that my brother made them skin and section everything away from the house so that I wouldn’t see. After my brother died I asked our step-dad about it. Turns out my brother didn’t like it when I had to see something he’d had a hand in killing.

Even his funeral had a closed casket.

Two weeks before he died, he changed his mind and decided to take me hunting with him. I could see him decide it too. He stood at the kitchen door, one foot out and rifle in hand, when his shoulders had straightened. Broad and strong, my brother had the kind of shoulders Atlas himself would envy. I watched as his body solidified at the edges, the blur of my constantly moving brother suddenly sharpening into focus.

We went past our neighbors' blackberry bushes, thick brambles of dark sugar with ringlets of thorns curled between the leaves. Walked through dark, shadowed fields that always smelled like sour-ripe fruit, or some other kind of rot in the summer months. We went running past the church-house with the wasps’ nests in the windows; our feet pounding the earth, stronger than any hoofbeat. We’d strolled down tar-built streets that turned into dirt roads, my feet kicking up dust till the whole scene was chalky and gray, except for him. He was tall and broad and golden, and I loved him more than anything.

Finally, we reached the creek, and he had waded to where the water smelled like an icebox and tasted like ozone. He stood, knee-deep in guppies and shot at anything that moved. I remember watching him shoot the oil-feathered grackles, and the bluegills haloed by rings of algae and sunlight. He had plucked them from the water, turning them this way and that, his marksman eyes seeking. I don’t know what he was looking for, and he never told me if he found it.

We stayed for hours on end, till I was tired, and hungry, and my feet numb from being in shoes all day, but he remained unbroken by time. Even after the sun had slid out of the sky- a runny pierced yolk, we stayed.

Finally, he’d dragged his legs out of the creek and walked over to where I was laying, half asleep, by some primrose and milkweed. My nail beds and fingertips stained with dirt from where I’d dug holes to bury all the birds and buckshot like he’d asked.

As his footsteps had grown near, I’d expected him to shake me awake. But he didn’t. He just picked me up and settled me in the crook of his arm like a baby, even though I’d been getting too big for that sort of thing. His hands had smoothed my hair back from my sweat-beaded brow and he’d kissed my temple. He’d carried me home and tucked me into bed; sang softly as sleep had swaddled me close, his broad, rough hand settled between my shoulder blades. I remember I felt safe. I don’t think I’ve ever felt unsafe with him.

So, my brother haunts me, but he doesn’t do it to scare me. Not all hauntings are bad. I think most of the time he’s just trying to show me that he’s okay. He leaves signs everywhere. A cigarette lit and unattended in the kitchen on the windowsill. Muddy, size eleven-and-a-half boot prints that start in our driveway and lead us through the house, all the way up to his bedroom. The sudden smell of lemon cake. The press of a hand, briefly solid, between my shoulder blades. All of them telling me he’s okay.

Some nights, when I can’t sleep, I try talking back to him. I don’t know if he understands what I’m saying, if words still mean anything to the dead, but I know he listens. I know because on those nights, when I finally do fall asleep, I dream.

I dream of heaven, and it is full of peeled oranges.

The last night my brother haunted me, he stood tall, puffed out his chest, and helped our mom bring the groceries in from the car. He carried them all inside in one trip. He helped put it all away, cold items first. Once everything was stored in the right place he grabbed an orange, took my hand, and led me outside. We sat on the curb as he peeled the orange and split it.

He gave me both halves.