Remembering someone who left too soon.

As a kid, I read my brother’s castoffs, Bradbury, Heinlein, Douglas Adams, creators of worlds that ranged from the wondrous to the outright ridiculous. But my brother didn’t just read books, he inhaled them until they were part of his DNA. Good natured and funny, I never suspected the loneliness behind the smile. It wasn’t until years later that he revealed the isolation he felt, growing up invisible in a crowded house. Books offered a kindness in that they never turned him away. They saved my brother until the day they no longer could.

We grew apart as adults. I moved and didn’t see him for years. Eventually, we reconnected and he came to visit. He had become a big gray bear, quick to smile or tell a joke. But his eyes were tinged with a sadness that never truly disappeared. He was upfront with his diagnosis of bipolar disorder and had been sober for seven years. And best yet, he could still quote passages from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy word for word. Towel, anyone?

And of course, he had brought a book. It was The Fifth Elephant. The cover was ripped, the pages loose and crammed in at awkward angles like an origami hedgehog.

“Is that any good?” I asked.

He grinned and walked away. His next few days were spent barefoot, reading on my back porch, with the ever-present cigarette. His only movement was to turn the pages, the cigarette burning down to its nub in the ashtray, untouched. Occasionally, his lips curled and he would look off into the distance, before bowing his head again. Our evenings were spent looking for something scary on TV because horror is always great as long as it’s happening to someone else. All too soon I drove him to the airport. I told him to come back anytime, for any reason. His answer was a pained smile. I never saw him again. We texted and called over the next few years, his responses becoming slower until they didn’t come at all.

His body was found on a sidewalk next to his car. He died alone, homeless. The guilt is endless that I didn’t know. I should have known.

I waited months for his ashes. He was lost on the way. My first thought was that he had delivered his last twisted punchline, a dead stranger sent to the wrong address saying “Here I am,” to a shocked audience.

When he finally arrived, it was a sunny day, prettier than it had any right to be. The mailman rang the doorbell, holding a box. “These are human remains,” he said, the novelty of it etched on his face.

I took it and my heart fell out. It was smaller and heavier than I imagined. “This is my big brother.”

His grin disappeared. He bolted back to his vehicle, leaving me with the weight in my arms. A weight that I was loath to give up. I sat on my bed cradling the box on my lap. It was too late to make things right, too late to reverse a childhood where he felt unloved.

Eventually, I set him on a desk in the corner of my room, afraid to leave him anywhere else. My mother, in the early stages of dementia, immediately tossed or hid away anything new. I pictured her opening the box, finding a strange bag of lumpy sand, followed by her tossing my brother in the trash. His death was something she couldn’t fathom. So, the box stayed in my room.

It was a restless box. It began with muffled thumps and rustles, as if something was brushing against the wall. Other times a chill settled on the room starting in my feet and spreading up to my chest. One night, I sat up in bed convinced that I heard the creak of a floorboard bending under someone’s weight, then a muted cough. I stared at the corner of the room, trying to make my brother appear by sheer will alone. He didn’t. Eventually, the sounds stopped.

I browsed the internet on how to deal with grief. It was all crap. Finally, I bought a book-shaped locket. I put our childhood pictures in it, ashes tucked behind my brother, with me on the other side gazing at him. Sometimes I open it and look at us together. Some horrors are bittersweet and hard to swallow, but we do them anyway.

And I read The Fifth Elephant. It was indeed, a very good book.

The time came and we spread my brother’s ashes in the woods. I felt empty, as if it wasn’t enough. He deserved more. Afterwards, my sister and I walked the three miles back to the parking lot, while the others drove. There was a sudden crashing in the undergrowth. A huge otter, a monster at five feet, barreled toward the path and then stopped short. A gleaming black head stared up at us through the leaves. His darkness stood apart from the forest, making everything else seem brighter. Then he melted back into the trees. A proper goodbye.

There are some books that have stayed with me. I read them every few years or so. One of them is Shadowland by Peter Straub. Throughout the narrative he begins fairy tales with variations of, “Many years ago, when we all lived in the forest, and nobody lived anywhere else…”

This line always makes me feel wistful, to yearn for a magical place. But it seems with these stories that we remember the witches and the dragon slayers, but forget about the people in the background, the ones who cherish the dragons and keep their memories alive. These are the people who take a step back and let others shine.

Dear Allen, I am saying this much too late, but Many years ago, when we all lived in the forest, and nobody lived anywhere else, you were there all along…