I can’t stand June 5. I won’t buy food with that expiration date. I will change the channel if it’s the release date in a movie preview. I cringe on May 5 because it’s exactly one month until June 5. I hate that this day paralyzes me.
On this day and those leading up to it, I think about my brother and all that he’s missing.
I think about the horror that suddenly filled our lives on this date. One minute I was walking my dog through the neighborhood on a sunny Tuesday morning, and after one phone call on the sidewalk, I was running down the street screaming, struggling to unlock the front door, and was unable to dress myself or pack before we headed to my parents’. What’s the proper attire in the event of the sky falling?
I can remember all that I ate the rest of the week: two strawberries and a cheese cube. What a big, blurry, confusing, yet unforgettable mess of a day. Looking at that sentence, the word ‘understatement’ comes to mind. It’s weird how that date used to be just any other day.
I remember the first snowfall after it all happened. I stood by myself outside in the cold, silent night, thinking, “This is how it feels for it to snow without Nathan.”
There are so many firsts like this because you have to learn how to live all over again.
I marvel that the world keeps spinning even though life has stopped. Then somehow it moves forward again, each step strange and uncharted.
The events of that day ruined what are significant days that I used to look forward to: December 25 and 31, my birthday … my mom, dad, and sister’s birthdays, too. And other typically normal days since then that have given reason to celebrate, but now are punctuated with, “I wish Nathan were here.” Smile, cry, smile, cry. Repeat to achieve desired catharsis. It’s tiring.
Dates and numbers shouldn’t have this effect on me. I see 6/5 and shut down. I see the number 25 and think that’s how old Nathan was and ever will be.
I see the number 39 and remember that’s how many motorcyclists were killed in an alcohol-related crash in Virginia the year Nathan died. Nathan died. That doesn’t sound right. I hardly say it that way because it isn’t real. Is it? I say “Nathan’s crash” (and we silently know what happened next).
I see the number 32 and know that that’s the approximate number of people in the U.S. who die each day in motor vehicle crashes that involve an alcohol-impaired driver. 32 families and sets of friends get that news every day. One every 45 minutes.
This isn’t real. I’m just waiting for it to be over and things to go back. There are unexpected times when the realization hits me like a punch to the stomach, making me lose my breath.
A piece of me died at his side on that June night. I can’t believe that this is the rest of my life.
Sometimes I ask him aloud, “Where are you?” I swear he answered back as a twinkling star when I asked the first time that June 5 night, when I found myself sitting alone in my parents’ driveway, praying for a sign. I was clinging to the final hours of that day because it would be the last that we were both alive.
Signs are what get me by sometimes. Orange butterflies, songs that play at just the right time.
Three: the number of years since the crash. Then it will be four, five, six …
I still check my phone in the morning for that late-night text from Nathan, and when I’m telling someone what’s new with me, I make a list in my mind of each family member, one by one, and what I can share about their lives. Mom and Dad are doing ok -- just saw them last weekend. Adrienne and the fam are doing well up north. Then a gaping hole. Can anyone else see it?
No one asks “How’s your brother?” anymore, and it’s weird and depressing.
I don’t get to be a big sister anymore. I just thought of it that way only a couple months ago. I have a lot more advice to give, too.
In case you wanted more numbers, .18 was Chan’s blood alcohol content. 15 is the number of years he will spend in prison. He’ll be about 40 when he gets out.
Three is the number of people who were in the car. Zero is the number of them who were sober or remembered how they got on the road going the wrong way.
Countless are the cab drivers who are confused when I ask them to take me to DC without using 395, even though it’s the quickest route.
It comforts me to post online on this date, and I’ve learned never to pass up an opportunity for something to help. This is how I grieve. Nathan didn’t deserve this end, and I at least owe it to him to say these words.
“He was no longer surprised how easily tears could come to his eyes.”
The Shack
On this day and those leading up to it, I think about my brother and all that he’s missing.
I think about the horror that suddenly filled our lives on this date. One minute I was walking my dog through the neighborhood on a sunny Tuesday morning, and after one phone call on the sidewalk, I was running down the street screaming, struggling to unlock the front door, and was unable to dress myself or pack before we headed to my parents’. What’s the proper attire in the event of the sky falling?
I can remember all that I ate the rest of the week: two strawberries and a cheese cube. What a big, blurry, confusing, yet unforgettable mess of a day. Looking at that sentence, the word ‘understatement’ comes to mind. It’s weird how that date used to be just any other day.
I remember the first snowfall after it all happened. I stood by myself outside in the cold, silent night, thinking, “This is how it feels for it to snow without Nathan.”
There are so many firsts like this because you have to learn how to live all over again.
I marvel that the world keeps spinning even though life has stopped. Then somehow it moves forward again, each step strange and uncharted.
The events of that day ruined what are significant days that I used to look forward to: December 25 and 31, my birthday … my mom, dad, and sister’s birthdays, too. And other typically normal days since then that have given reason to celebrate, but now are punctuated with, “I wish Nathan were here.” Smile, cry, smile, cry. Repeat to achieve desired catharsis. It’s tiring.
Dates and numbers shouldn’t have this effect on me. I see 6/5 and shut down. I see the number 25 and think that’s how old Nathan was and ever will be.
I see the number 39 and remember that’s how many motorcyclists were killed in an alcohol-related crash in Virginia the year Nathan died. Nathan died. That doesn’t sound right. I hardly say it that way because it isn’t real. Is it? I say “Nathan’s crash” (and we silently know what happened next).
I see the number 32 and know that that’s the approximate number of people in the U.S. who die each day in motor vehicle crashes that involve an alcohol-impaired driver. 32 families and sets of friends get that news every day. One every 45 minutes.
This isn’t real. I’m just waiting for it to be over and things to go back. There are unexpected times when the realization hits me like a punch to the stomach, making me lose my breath.
A piece of me died at his side on that June night. I can’t believe that this is the rest of my life.
Sometimes I ask him aloud, “Where are you?” I swear he answered back as a twinkling star when I asked the first time that June 5 night, when I found myself sitting alone in my parents’ driveway, praying for a sign. I was clinging to the final hours of that day because it would be the last that we were both alive.
Signs are what get me by sometimes. Orange butterflies, songs that play at just the right time.
Three: the number of years since the crash. Then it will be four, five, six …
I still check my phone in the morning for that late-night text from Nathan, and when I’m telling someone what’s new with me, I make a list in my mind of each family member, one by one, and what I can share about their lives. Mom and Dad are doing ok -- just saw them last weekend. Adrienne and the fam are doing well up north. Then a gaping hole. Can anyone else see it?
No one asks “How’s your brother?” anymore, and it’s weird and depressing.
I don’t get to be a big sister anymore. I just thought of it that way only a couple months ago. I have a lot more advice to give, too.
In case you wanted more numbers, .18 was Chan’s blood alcohol content. 15 is the number of years he will spend in prison. He’ll be about 40 when he gets out.
Three is the number of people who were in the car. Zero is the number of them who were sober or remembered how they got on the road going the wrong way.
Countless are the cab drivers who are confused when I ask them to take me to DC without using 395, even though it’s the quickest route.
It comforts me to post online on this date, and I’ve learned never to pass up an opportunity for something to help. This is how I grieve. Nathan didn’t deserve this end, and I at least owe it to him to say these words.
“He was no longer surprised how easily tears could come to his eyes.”
The Shack
