In Another Life

Before, I would often tell my brother I’d give him anything he needed––a kidney, a set of lungs, an arm, a leg, anything. Even my life was included in the list…but he was gone too fast for me to offer it again. I have nothing more to give to him, but a prayer every time I think of him. I forgot what it was like to not have his memory lingering in the back of every thought, no matter how insignificant it was.

I have nothing more to give him, but my tears that have stained every surface of my home. Every pair of clothes I own. Every shoulder I cried on since he left. And my hands are withered from the silent tears made in the dead of night. When the world feels still and like his death isn’t one of millions.

Like it’s giving more time for his memory and spirit to remain at arm’s reach.

I have nothing more to give him, but my curses and shouts into the void. Blaming him for not being careful enough. Scolding him that he knew better than to drive late at night––especially in rough neighborhoods. Threatening to destroy all his games if he doesn’t crawl out of his tomb to stop me and play this whole thing as a prank. To wake me up from the nightmares of seeing his cold body painted red.

I have nothing more to give him, but the hatred that has festered for myself. For the future ahead that will force me to live without him. 

But…

I still have something to give.

If not for my brother, then for the innocent creature he rescued. A golden colored dog he described as 'the perfect size to hug' with eyes that held a lifetime of love and loyalty. A dog who gave up on life while wandering cruel streets. A dog who gave him something to live for instead of the demons living inside his head. A dog who unknowingly saved my brother from his own hands.

I will never be able to completely take away his sadness. My brother was his entire world; his soulmate. Sometimes he looks at me as if he sees some resemblance–that maybe he was there all along. Then he whines when he realizes it’s not him. It’ll never be him again.

The part of his soul that was revived by my brother was taken again the very night he died.

The only time he returns to his old, happy self is when we visit his grave. His tail wags, he barks excitedly, and he jumps out of the car to run to the cemetery. He doesn’t sniff anything nor does he wait for me. Then he starts jumping on his hind legs, dancing around the grave as if someone were there.

His eyes never leave the empty space he stares at so lovingly. Nothing else exists in his mind in those moments. When his tail resembles a propeller and he holds his paws up, waiting to be carried as he once was. 

And I always remember my brother’s words to him: “I will love you in this life and in the next.”

I don’t know if I’m able to give this dog a lung, a kidney, an arm, or a leg, but I can still give him my life. With the short time he had with my brother, I can make sure he still knows what love is, with the short time he has left on this earth.