We grievers sometimes have ethereal imaginations — dreaming of the heavens, trying to picture what it may be like where our loved ones lie.

Seven years: 2,558 days exactly since police discovered my brother’s body.

When Patrick died, did he soon learn that our mother would follow his example? Were her mind’s secrets revealed to him years before she definitively decided to leave?

* * * *

It was May 4, 2019 and I had just left a large gathering that honored and remembered my dear friend, Walter, on the one year anniversary of his passing.

I spent that night at Patrick’s house, he had invited me over for the weekend. He was drunk when I got there, and he was horribly ashamed about it too. I was sad to see him like that. I was sad for so many reasons that night. Missing my friend, hurting for my brother, and attempting to nurture what life I could.

Patrick wanted to watch “Ready Player One,” so I watched it and he passed out next to me. I couldn’t move him into a bed, I wasn’t strong enough. So I covered him with a blanket instead and hoped that I got him into a comfortable enough position.

He woke before I did — I’d had a hard time falling asleep — and made me blueberry pancakes. He gave me a book to take home, but I still haven’t brought myself to read it. It was a Sunday. We hugged goodbye and that was the last time I saw him. He wanted me to drive him to a rehab facility on Monday morning, but no one heard from him again after that evening.

I was shocked to learn that he died by suicide. I thought that drugs and alcohol would kill him, and perhaps they did, in some way. We know they altered the brain.

Maybe Momma was so afraid of alcohol because she wanted to drink her life away, too. Maybe she saw in Patrick what she really wanted to do. But I don’t blame him. Perhaps his death influenced hers… Probably, but she made her choice, even knowing how what he did destroyed pieces of each of us.

* * * *

I wonder if Patrick knew how much it hurt when he left us. I wonder if he saw that after he died, or did it even matter? Did he forget us? Does he ever see me an eternity? Can he feel my love and loss and sorrow from the grave?

What was it like when Patrick and Momma reunited? Did they both cry? Was it happy and sad? Did they catch up?

Did they talk about us? Did Patrick tell her how he watched her mourn? Did he apologize? Did he hold her? Oh, how sweet it must’ve been. How sad it must’ve been.

* * * *

I wish Patrick had gotten better. I wish he had made it to Melbourne with me, like we talked about. Does he remember that conversation? Patrick looked up the city after I told him about it. He told me about the airport and how he could work there too. He just wanted to be with me, in Virginia where we lived or in Melbourne where I hoped to move… I see that now. I don’t know if I understood that then.

I really loved him. I’m sad that my love matured to grief so soon.

* * * *

Maybe Patrick wasn’t a good man. It’s hard to tell with his life, he hurt people deeply: he became a drunk and struggled with pills. Who are we to judge? He had a good heart. He wanted to be a good man. He really tried, but oh how tormented he was.

Patrick was in so much pain from such a young age, and what was he supposed to do with that pain? He couldn’t express it at home — Mom wouldn’t allow that — but it had to leak out.

Pain demands attention. Sometimes, Pain demands an audience, but pain only wanted Patrick’s attention and his tenderness. Mom taught us that it was bad to give pain and sorrow our attention. Patrick didn’t know what to do, so he went about it all the wrong way: he tried to medicate, but that doesn’t work. Not really.

His medicine had left side effects, devastating effects. It contorted and isolated him, and we didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry for that.

So, maybe Patrick wasn’t a good man. But he had a good heart. It was just too wounded to do much healing. It was just too fractured to be fused.

I believe that he could’ve healed, though. It was his own delusions that wouldn’t let him see it, and that’s the hardest part. Who knew that the devil could be inside you? That the accuser could be within your mind?

* * * *

I don’t often share what it’s like to live with someone with mental illness. As children, we can be caught up in our parents delusions. As siblings, we can be caught in the middle of our siblings’ chaos.

My mom held the belief that we could not be sad. She rejected it, she masked it, she avoided it. She taught us that this was normal, and that feeling sadness was wrong. That was probably the most dangerous thing she taught us, and the one of the most deadly thing she believed herself.

Sometimes we can turn the people who died into saints, but it’s just not true. Duality exist in all of us. With that duality, we can bring life and love and joy and care, and with that duality we can destroy.

* * * *

Patrick was a complicated man. I loved him wholly despite of the many pains he brought about. Patrick was tender and nurturing and kind and loving. He was easy to talk to and he had a wonderful laugh. Patrick would get so excited about little things — he would become fixated on a hobby and it would quickly become his lifestyle.

As loving as he was, Patrick was mean too. He was so filled with hurt that he often hurt others. He was charming and wonderful and loving. He was an amazing brother in many, many ways. He loved his family deeply, so, so deeply. Patrick was a turbulent man. He was a complicated man. I loved every piece of him.

My Mom was complicated too. I’m learning to identify some of the harmful things she taught us and did to us, and it’s really not a fun process.

* * * *

This week, I remember my friend Walter: Deceased – May 4, 2018.

I remember my brother Patrick: Last contact – May 5, 2019. Discovered lifeless – May 7, 2019.

I remember my Momma: Mother’s Day – May 10, 2026.

It didn’t matter how much I loved any of them. They are all still gone.

* * * *

I hate this week.