february 25th

february 25th four years ago my brother died.

—i'm sitting cross legged on the floor at my mom's watching my third re-run of the m.t.v. movie awards when my mom answers the phone and i hear from her end "graham died?"
—my brother's laying in the doorway of his room at my dad's house with uniformed people circling him. my dad has his head on the kitchen table. jennifer is buckled next to the windowsill.
—i'm trying to explain "i don't want this to be happening" but i can only stammer "i don't wanna go in the ambulance."
—the people in the waiting room at the emergency room are watching xena the warrior princess, as i wish it was their brother and not mine.
—a nurse asks my dad if i'm old enough to see him, and i wish i had been younger.
—my mom finally breaks down in a little glass room they keep in the hospital, and i assume it's soundproof for that purpose.
—i tell jennifer i'm done crying.
—the next morning i throw my lamp on its side because i can't find the right sweater to wear to the funeral.
—my dad says "they don't dress things up much at jewish cemeteries." i stare at a hole in the dirt and the rosewood coffin with a gold jewish star.
—my aunt says "he's not in there, sweetie"

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now, february 25th my family becomes as kind as the brady bunch. no one brings up the bad tasting dinner, the bills, the channel on t.v., or the giant pink elephant in the room. i turn the shower on and curl into a ball at the other end of the tub, so no one in the house hears me cry. i don't think i can ever take seeing my father cry again, and i think my doing so would encourage it.

i don't know if i should feel guilty because i don't go through those moments every other day or because i've never been back to the grave, and the rocks i put there the first time have probably disintegrated or blown off.

when people ask, i tell them that he was handicapped all his life and died of cronic pneumonia. i don't tell them that he loved early rolling stones and had the warmest smile i've ever seen.