It was a rainy morning.
Mid-April, chilly, daffodils peeking through the damp terra,
their bulbs shedding the winter frost.
I put a load of laundry in the washer
and went upstairs listening
for the little boys in the other room.
Two of our eight left, leaving the downstairs quiet for once
-- briefly.
Then doors were slamming and
people were yelling and
then sudden quiet.
I processed what I heard
and felt my heart still in my chest.
No.
Other people get in accidents.
Other people's lives change, not ours.
[But ours did.]
I ran to the end of the driveway and a woman stopped
and asked me if those were my brothers.
They're going to be okay, she said.
My brothers? What is she talking about?
Get in. I'll take you there.
I got in.
It smelled like hot suede and silly putty.
I wanted to vomit.
They'll be okay, she kept saying.
What will be okay, my head was screaming?

And then I saw my brother.
My little brother. Lying on the road, in the middle of the road,
to the left of the yellow lines on the highway.
His purple sweatshirt torn and his head in an extraordinary position.

Heads don't do that, I told myself to tell him. Put your head back, Andrew. PUT YOUR HEAD BACK.

Danny is wearing black. He used to wear black t-shirts.
He is pushing mom back. Sean is doing CPR. There are cars everywhere.
Why are there cars everywhere,
doesn't anybody know that my brother is lying in the middle of the road,
[and that brothers don't lay in the middle of roads]
can't they take a different route?
They don't know though and they slow down and wait and look
at my brother's distorted head;
at my mom doubled over;
at my older brother doing CPR;
at my little brother with his hands covering my mom's face;
at me standing there over my misshapen brother in stunned silence.

They look and then they go to work, to school, to church, to the bank.

There are lights and sirens everywhere.
It is the morning.
Things like this happen at night,
in the middle of the night,
when lights and sirens are exciting and exhilarating.
Not at 9am on a rainy April day.

There are people and their hands are on me,
pushing and pulling me in every direction but the direction I want to go
-- only I don't know which direction I want to go.
People say that the drive to the hospital is the longest, but it wasn't.
Not for me.
It was the moment I called my dad.
The moment between when I asked his co-worker to give him the phone and
when I heard his voice on the other end. There was an accident I tell him.
I can't finish,
the doctor is standing in the doorway, and somebody picks up the phone from my hands.

I put my hands over my ears because I know what he is going to tell me.
That he's sorry, that they did everything they could.
Because they don't understand,
this is my brother.
My 14 year old brother who smiles all the time and has bright blue eyes and a silly grin.
My brother who loves Phase Ten and Nerd candies.
My brother who has not one, not two, not three,
but four best friends who reciprocate the feeling even more than he originates it.
My brother whose idea of fun was practical jokes and worthless pricesless treasures.
This doctor, this young intern, doesn't realize that he can't say those words to us.

With my hands over my ears I look up and realize we are in a small room with no windows and only one door. There is only a phone and a couch. Hospitals only have one reason for rooms like this, and there was only one reason we had been sent here instead of in the waiting room. I took my hands off my ears and the room spun, I heard yelling and crying, and someone was on their face in front of me commanding the Lord to give him back his life.

I laughed, like Sarah did, when the Lord promised her something she thought impossible.

Someone put a cloth under my nose and the smell forced my senses back into use. Can't faint. Can't faint. Danny needs x-rays. Lore can you go with him, he needs someone with him. Are you pregnant? Pregnant? My brother just died and you want to know if I'm pregnant? No. Okay. Sit here. No here. Can you see me? Can you hear me? Of course I can see you and hear you, you're yelling in my face. But she can't hear me.
Brothers don't just die.

But they do. And he did. Andrew David Ferguson did.

Feb. 28 1986 -April 19 2000

Sometimes I catch myself:
Putting in a load of laundry.
Passing the white cross on Route 11.
Calculating how old he might have been.
Staring at Joshua who looks so much like him.
Passing anniversarys no one remembers anymore.
Wishing I had more photos, more memories.

Sometimes I catch myself,
with words caught in my throat to tell him.

I miss you.