Ch. 2 - Obituary #1
Chapter 2 from my memoir, "My Own Private Waste Land"
2 – Obituary #1
Reverend Lynn William Hornbrook, 51, deceased August 15, 2004, is survived by his wife Jody, daughters Anna, Elly, and Mary, son Seth, two grandsons, Kyle and Logan, his father, mother, an aunt, two sisters, and one brother.
Ten years younger, I am that brother.
* * * * *
To me, he was the sun the moon all the stars.
The shallow pews curved gently like log benches at a terraced outdoor amphitheater. The pines of Portland filtered the slanted summer light through the large windows in the back of the bare church. Projected onto the front wall, photos cycled momentous events -- family births, weddings, graduations. His widow and children sat in front. His birth family, those who knew a different Lynn, sat in the back, unknown to the line of guest speakers: his pastor, psychiatrist, friends, his daughters, his son.
My hands shook as I stood at the podium. My voice cracked. I had never felt this broken. Tears blinded me like glittering diamond prisms.
I had been compared to my brother my entire life, every moment in some way defined by him. This wasn’t just a loss of a brother, my brother. If he was no longer, who was I?
When would I be stricken? When would I be smote?
Ashes to ashes
. . . fear in a handful of . . .
Dust to dust
He is the first one of my immediate family to die. I didn’t know this man, not really, suicidally depressed for years, bloated from meds. He had lost his laugh. I mourned for and eulogized the brother I knew. We shared a room until I was seven, until he moved into the garage, covered the bare studs with tapestries and his yellow poster, “War is not healthy for children and other living things.” He gave up his senior year of basketball to grow his hair long.
The corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He protected me from my sisters and picked on me like only an older brother can, dunking me in the pool, karate chops, pink bellies. We hitchhiked in Hawaii, backpacking, just the two us. When I was eleven, I was the best man at his wedding.
Not long after he married, interpreting for the deaf in churches, he found God, gave up his hippie ways. Just like that, our parallel paths diverged, branches bent by contrary winds in a storm. He stiffened, became serious and studious, right minded. He may have found something, but I lost him then for good.
When he joined the church, he pulled away, kept his own family and children close. I lived in New Mexico and later on the plains of Kansas, separated from the family on the West coast while they enjoyed frequent visits. One summer, I asked if he would send his children to visit, just as we had visited our aunt and grandparents in Ohio when we were children living in Los Angeles, a family tradition. Without hesitation, he declined. “We won’t be sending the kids to visit.” A general pronouncement. I could hear his voice slide down the bridge of his nose. He didn’t approve of my unmarried cohabitation. When we finally decided to marry, he declined to officiate.
What was more important than family? Where did you go, brother?
His church was now his tomb.
This man who died, this wasn’t the same man who played catch with me, who taught me to throw a frisbee, though I could never match the grace with which he flicked his wrist and let it soar. I may not have known him, yet this man was still my brother. I spoke until my words lapsed into guttural keening and then a winter’s long hieroglyphic silence.
The wound paralyzed me. We were too much alike. It was a game of not if, but when.
* * * * *
In the ER, my thoughts turn to him. Here he is again, 11 years after his death, and I can still taste him in my blood. Is this the moment I rise to meet him?
Who’s there?
Like Hamlet’s father, his ghost won’t rest.
These fragments . . .
How do you survive the loss of such a brother? Indeed, how had I.
— END CH. 2 —
If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider signing up for a subscription to support my efforts as I seek traditional publication. Even if you opt for the free subscription, you will be helping me to build audience for the publication of my memoir. You can always give a gift to subscription to those who you think may like my work.
I write about:
writing and the writing life
writing process
memoir craft
mental illness - major depressive disorder, suicide, borderline personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder
sailing
alternative lifestyles - polyamory and kink
Have a great weekend. Until next week, I’ll . . ..
Just keep writing!
As always, thank you for reading. Comments are appreciated. Let me know what you think! Let’s get to know each other. All the best! See you next week for chapters 3 and 4.