Purpose
I remember the day in early autumn up in my tree house when I prayed to God to bless me with a baby brother.
I remember the day almost a year later when He granted my wish.
I remember when my mother let me hold him for the first time.
I remember how the early summer sun shining through the window highlighted the peaks of his face and brow, like a halo.
Mark, they said. His name is Mark.
—
I remember when he first sat up in his Elmo chair.
I remember how he would attempt to communicate with us with his baby babble.
I remember the days at the beach where he would try to eat the sand.
I remember his favorite color crayon to draw with was yellow.
I remember my dad taking home videos of us playing in the living room on his camcorder.
I remember how we decided to get a goldfish tank for his room.
I remember when we would get him to wear an oversized pair of safety goggles because it would
make his eyes all big and funny.
I remember he would giggle at that.
—
I remember playing too rough with him one day and he started to cough up blood.
I remember staring blankly at the red liquid dripping onto his shirt as he started to wail.
I remember thinking it was all my fault.
I remember my parents bringing the two of us to the hospital for blood tests.
I remember listening to those same cries from the waiting room.
—
I remember when he couldn't sit up in his Elmo chair anymore.
I remember when he stopped verbalizing his needs.
I remember how he no longer attempted to crawl.
I remember wondering if he knew something was wrong.
I remember the weekly stays at the children's hospital.
I remember the bubble machine they put in his room to give us something to watch as we fell asleep.
I remember the smell of the sterile pink soap in the bathroom.
I remember how when those hospital stays got longer, my parents would take turns staying with me at home.
I remember how quiet the house became.
—
I remember the summer he was diagnosed, my cousin and I set up a lemonade stand to fundraise for my parent's flight to Boston Children's Hospital.
I remember we made a poster that spelled out “FUNDRAISER” and decorated it with a poorly drawn Elmo out of red crayon and craft paper.
I remember we parked our folding table at the foot of my driveway equipped with bottles of MinuteMaid and a Playmate full of ice.
I remember how the bikers and dog-walkers that crossed our path questioned, “And what are you kids fundraising for?”
I remember replying, “So my baby brother can go to the hospital to get better!”
I remember handing my parents a profit of almost sixty-five dollars thinking it would cover their whole round trip affair.
I remember the fights my parents would have after that trip.
I remember one night, after dinner, when I got on my father's nerves so much to the point where he threw his fist into the kitchen wall.
I remember thinking everything was my fault.
—
I remember when they finally moved my brother home from the hospital.
I remember his big-boy bed being replaced with a fancy electric one that was too large and equipment that was too noisy.
I remember wondering if he understood.
I remember the sympathy casseroles the neighbors would leave at our doorstep.
I remember never eating them.
I remember when strangers in pink scrubs were living in our house.
I remember when my friends stopped coming to my house for play dates because they were scared of him.
I remember thinking that my entire existence was different from theirs.
I remember the other children worry about things like if hot lunch Friday this week was going to be chicken fingers or pizza.
I remember worrying about whether or not my brother would wake up tomorrow.
I remember praying to God to make my baby brother get better.
I remember when God stopped answering my pleas.
I remember when my mom held me close one night and explained that Mark will be going to heaven soon.
I remember wanting to go with him.
—
I remember when the Make a Wish foundation contacted my parents and sponsored us a two-week vacation to Disney World.
I remember the thrill of flying on a plane for the first time.
I remember how unhappy he was in the hot Floridian sun.
I remember how frustrated he was when he couldn't wipe the sweat from his eyes.
I remember wondering if all he knew in life was pain.
I remember riding Expedition Everest twice in a row with my dad until we both felt like we were going to throw up.
I remember feeling guilty for the small amount of joy this trip gave me.
I remember coming home to the same pain that we had just escaped from.
I remember how his cries and screams lingered throughout the hallways at night.
I remember feeling so alone.
—
I remember my cat becoming more protective of him the sicker he became.
I remember how she would hiss if anyone came too close to him, and chew up the nurse's Crocs if she didn't put them away in the shoe closet.
I remember the only time she bit me was after I was sitting too close to him on the couch.
I remember thinking she understood too.
—
I remember our last Christmas together.
I remember my mother topping off her wine glass as it became half empty again.
I remember my father's stoic expression the entire night.
I remember how my aunts’ and uncles’ smiles had slight undertones of pain and sadness.
I remember thinking that they're trying.
I remember thinking how I wish I could disappear.
—
I remember the twenty fourth of January that new year.
I remember it being cold, but not snowy.
I remember my mother's childhood best friend taking me for a walk around the neighborhood that morning.
I remember all of the people in my house.
I remember how my mother and I gained a spot on the foot of his bed.
I remember clutching a pair of rosary beads my grandmother gifted him during his christening.
I remember watching as the doctor unhooked the tube that ran from his neck to the big white box in the corner of his room.
I remember how his breathing became staggered.
—
I remember my face being buried in my mother's chest.
I remember I didn't cry, but I could feel her tears falling onto the crown of my head.
I remember a pair of large white wings enveloping his tiny, frail body.
I remember the soft glow of warm light radiating from him like a halo.
I remember whispering, “Mommy, Marky has wings now. Everything is okay.”
I remember watching him fly away.
—
I remember how my family distracted me in the living room so the coroners could remove his body under a white sheet.
I remember playing with the rosary beads when the chain fell apart in my hand.
I remember my grandmother telling me, “When things break, it means they have served their purpose.”
—
I remember waking up in my bed a couple days later to eight inches of fresh snow covering the earth.
I remember sitting in the backseat of the family Pathfinder and driving to the church.
I remember picking at the hole I created in the inside seam of my sheer black tights.
I remember being greeted by a small white box adorned with roses matching in color that sat at the top of the altar.
I remember not understanding.
I remember the priest crying as he laid his large palm over the box.
I remember the blue handkerchief my uncle dried his eyes with and used to clear his nose.
I remember the wails and sobs of the congregation; of the hundred and some-odd people who were as close to me as strangers.
I remember thinking how could a just God strike down an innocent boy who never had a chance.
I remember wishing I could disappear.
—
I remember the long line of cars being led to the cemetery by a police escort.
I remember a light flurry picking up outside the car window as we rode along slowly.
I remember the tiny plot of earth, void of snow, where he was going to be laid to rest.
I remember my mother telling me how she wished she could jump in there with him.
I remember picturing the earth filling in the space around their bodies.
I remember shoving that as far back as I could into my mind.
—
I remember the month my parents took me out of school.
I remember how they introduced me to a nice lady who was here to help me process my feelings.
I remember never sharing much.
I remember learning about the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
I remember only feeling numb.
I remember how they took me sledding one day down the large hill at Villa Walsh.
I remember how when we reached the bottom, I burst into tears.
I remember that being the first time I cried after he passed.
—
I remember the goldfish tank that resided in his empty room.
I remember never walking in there because I was afraid I would witness one of them bellied up, floating at the top of the water.
I remember thinking, he should have outlived his fish.
—
I remember looking for signs that he is still with me.
I remember that every time a painted lady fluttered by, I believed he was saying hello.
I remember searching for some kind of purpose as to why this all happened.
I remember how the people in church told me that things happen for a reason.
I remember thinking that God must be a sadist if he has any reason for taking away my baby brother.
I remember the first time I denounced Him.
—
I remember getting older, and the bits and pieces resurfacing from the pit of despair that is my long term memory store.
I remember learning more about my brother's disease.
I remember learning that the tests they did on me when I was younger were to make sure I wouldn't develop the same thing he had.
I remember thinking why my parents wouldn't tell me that.
—
I remember making a suicide pact with my mother.
I remember after my week vacation in the psychiatric hospital, my mother took me out to Panera bread for lunch.
I remember how over bread bowls and grilled cheese, she told me that if I ever succeeded in killing myself, she would too.
I remember her detailing how she would park the car in the garage, shut the door, and let carbon monoxide take its course.
I remember how she would joke about it after, but I know she meant what she promised.
—
I remember growing up.
I remember how he didn't get a chance to.
I remember always feeling guilty for that.
I remember wishing that I could take his place, and sometimes that thought consumes me.
But the only sound thing I can do in his honor is to remember.
Cover Photo by Анастасія Волошин.