More often than not, we outlive our parents, the way it should be. But there are the plot twists in life where a freak accident happens and someone is taken before their time, and it takes quite a toll on families. There can also be this strange feeling where they're gone, but it doesn't feel like it. It's surreal, especially if you didn't see your loved ones very often; maybe once over the summer, or when the whole family got together for a holiday.
My cousin and I were close. We were born a few months apart, him in September 1996, and myself in January 1997. With the two of us, it was a running joke to see who was taller, with his father being around 6'4", and my brother topping off at 5'11", taller than both of my parents. I usually kept the lead by about half an inch on him, and we would always have a good laugh about it.
When his family would come down from New York for the holidays, he and I would end up shooting the breeze and catching up while playing video games and card games, or over heaping plates of food. We would talk about everything and anything: girls, cars, games, school, plans for the future, music, and of course, food.
He loved bacon, and would always tell me about what he wrapped in bacon, fried in bacon fat, or added bacon to. He was my second brother, and I loved him like one.
I lost my cousin three years ago in a car accident, but it doesn't feel like he's gone. I wasn't able to go to the funeral due to my military service. I wish I could have gone, but I don't think I would've been able to handle it, being there.
I was 750 miles away, serving in the military, and still couldn't handle it when my commanding officer relayed the Red Cross message.
My family had a hard time. My brother was a pallbearer, and my mother had never seen him so upset. Another cousin of mine had a hard time going up to the casket. He hasn't been the same jovial, upbeat kid since, and it tears me up.
Even though I've been to his grave, whenever I see his parents or his sister I always want to ask how he's doing.
I check his Facebook page all the time, feeling guilty that I haven't found the words to write as I scroll through all the things everyone else has posted on his timeline. When I find new music, I go to show him online, and find myself remembering that he's gone.
His father gave me one of his shirts, a black tee with Deadpool on it, his favorite comic book anti-hero. I have it washed and folded neatly in my closet. I've been waiting for the right time to wear it; I just haven't found that moment yet. The wristband that his family made in his memory and had given me doesn't dangle around my wrist due to my job, but it's in my backpack, and that bag goes with me everywhere.
There are no words to describe losing a loved one. They just don't exist. Words cannot describe the pain, the disbelief, the anguish, the sense of helplessness. It's not easy, trying to move on, and some people can't. I don't blame them, because I still don't feel that sense of closure with my cousin. Maybe one day I will.
