"The mystical bond of brotherhood makes all men brothers"
-Thomas Carlyle
(in memory of Thomas Seibold)
I am in front of the casket. As is usually the case when someone so young is taken from us, the line of mourners is long. The casket is closed. Next to the casket is a framed picture, a young and vital version of the man being mourned. It is a reminder of the life that has been lost. It was cancer that dealt this cruel hand to this son, this friend, this father, this brother.
Everywhere you look, there are flowers. As I wait my turn to pay my respects, I am aware of the presence of the man behind me, my older brother. He and the man in the casket are the same age. They attended school together and are both looked up to by their younger brothers.
I’m moving from the casket to the receiving line now. I’m trying to piece together what I might say. What will be appropriate? I rehearse in my mind, but you cannot practice these lines. I’m not sure where to put my hands. I express my sympathies to the parents. My heart is heavy as I embrace them knowing that they have suffered life’s greatest tragedy. They have out-lived their child. I think of my parents, and hope they never have to stand opposite of where I stand now.
I move on to the oldest brother. He is a giant of a man, though his size is somewhat reduced by this devastating twist of fate. His shoulders slightly slumped, he nonetheless remains large in stature. My hand disappears in his, and I see the pain in his eyes. I see his pain, and I feel it, as my younger brother’s face flashes in my mind’s eye. What a blow it must be, when your younger brother is suffering, and you are powerless to prevent it. He could not stick up for him this time.
I’m with his sisters now. They stand dignified, and force smiles that reflect the toll that such a loss inflicts on a family. For they, like my own sister, while outnumbered by brothers, are the glue that binds the family.
I’m at the end of the line now. I’m with the younger brothers. They are twins and they are my friends. We went to school together and ran with the same crowd. We were a crowd of brothers. We laughed like brothers. We competed like brothers. And now, I mourn for them, and their brother. They’ve lost someone who, along with them, spoke a language foreign to any other. The language of brothers.
As I walk from the funeral home, I contemplate my father’s somewhat strained relationship with his brother. I reflect on my mother’s unmatched loyalty to her brother. I consider my oldest and dearest friend, who is his parents’ only son, we are as close as any two brothers could be. Mostly, I think of my brothers, one older, one younger, both very different, we are blessed and bound in brotherhood.
