It does not seem possible that I am about to write about my brother Ben's death. On Saturday, he was here in the dappled sunlight, swinging my children from his arms and dropping them onto the soft front yard grass. Listening to them...really listening to them, like only a bachelor uncle can...as they told him their secrets and tales. Excited about seeing his high school classmates at his 25th reunion that night, fretting about the wrinkles in the microsuede shirt he planned to wear, showing off his brand-new company van. Carrying a pack of orange Orbit gum in his shirt pocket instead of those revolting cigarettes.
It does not seem possible that it was just last night that a sheriff's deputy called my home and asked me to come be with my mom and dad because my brother Ben was killed in a car accident. That the computer equipment in his van was thrown forward and crushed him when a woman crossed the center line on a curve, hitting him head-on. That he died at the crash scene of massive internal injuries.
It does not seem possible that my three surviving brothers, my parents and I wavered between utter disbelief and acceptance as we clung to each other in my childhood home all the long, long night, and grieved. It does not seem possible that this morning I was writing my brother Ben's obituary or fielding calls from shocked friends and family. Or that I was choosing his burial clothing from his things, and wondering if dead people wear underwear.
Most of all, it does not seem possible that my brother Ben, who slid off barn roofs, told ghost stories, saw the bombing of Beirut, introduced my children to Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and Razzles, cracked himself up with corny stories, never slept and was a computer genius; who finally, finally had his life together, has gone to Jesus' arms, and I cannot follow just yet.
