This Mourning

This morning, I am thinking about my big brother, Andy, who would have turned 57 today.  At about 5 a.m. on July 2nd, I was awakened by a call from the hospital.  The nurse said that he wasn’t doing well; that we should come right away.  My mom rode to the hospital with me, but the car was silent.  When I got to his room, I went to him and held his hand.  I prayed, and I sang to him.  But he lay silent.  Once the doctor confirmed what I already knew was happening, I walked out of the room, down the hall to the elevator, and out the door.  I sat on a bench and looked up at the sky.  I asked, “Will You do a miracle today?”  But the heavens were silent.  When the crowds started to come to the house, I would slip out to get in my car and take a drive.  Most times I would go to his house, where I would walk through the rooms and remember.  I thought about our talks, the many times we prayed, and how we would make each other laugh until we cried.  I climbed in his bed and recalled how one of the last things he’d asked me, while lying there, was if I was in love.  I wished that I could talk to him about it…wished that I could hear his wisdom and loving counsel.  But the house was silent.  For weeks, I found myself starting to dial his number to tell him something funny or something I thought he’d find interesting.  A few times, I let it go to voice mail just to hear him speak.  But I knew in reality that, on the other end of the phone, it was silent.  For weeks, grief held my heart like a vise, wringing out a flow of tears...seemingly endless and silent.  For weeks, I have wondered and questioned:  “When am I going to really feel okay again?”  I seek solace in my solitude, and I strain to hear an answer.  But still, so far, there is only the echo of this mourning.