How Not To Save Your Sister’s Life:

Chapter 1: How We Wear Our Grief

I hear the front door open of the John K. Solosy Funeral Home and I see my sister, Rachel, pushing back the wisps of her long, black hair while heavily sighing , exhaling one last plume of smoke and flicking her cigarette out the door just before it closes. Rachel looks beyond me, behind me where Dad lay in his coffin. She sees Dad. I know this. She’s staring right at him, her disbelief and horror coloring her face. Her skin, her lips, fade from brown to white. Startled, she looks at me as if I’ve just magically materialized in front of her. “Fuck!,” she says. “ I cant’ do this bro,” and exits just as quickly and dramatically as she arrived.

Chapter 2: Meditation Mantra : The Rosary’s Hidden Gift

I follow Rachel out the door as Detroit’s cold winter air hits my face and I hug myself in a futile attempt to keep warm. Rachel’s talking to the wind, to the cars flying by on Fort Street: “ I can’t do this Ruben ! I can’t fucking do this ! This is some fucked up shit. I can’t go in there.” Her hands are motioning to the space around her, then the sky. “And the rosary’s about to start and I just wanna get high and forget this shit.” Surprisingly, I don’t go in for the brotherly side-hug or tell her, “It’s going to be alright.” That would definitely have been the wrong move, wrong words. All I can muster is, “Dad wouldn’t care, Rachel. Stay out here as long as you want.” I wanted to say more, throw some deep, prophetic words at her like a lifeline that she could grab hold of and pull her self up to safety. But all I could think of was, “Come in when you’re ready. Just come in when you’re ready,” as I turned to open the door and hear the the first lines of the prayer:

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. In times of sickness and death, prayers are the best means of consolation, comfort and help that people can give. Let us now begin this Rosary by calling on our Blessed Mother Mary to pray for us now as we pray for Rosendo Mauricio.”

My father’s name is said aloud and just hearing it makes some people gasp, others cry and most everyone else recites the prayer in unison. Row after row of mourners with their heads down giving voice to a shared sorrow, a remembrance of a life lived, and now quieted.

Sitting in the very back , I’m staring at my feet and purposely not looking up. I feel someone take the chair to my right. A strong odor of weed suddenly overcomes me as Rachel pats my hand over and over. “Hey Rubes,” I hear her whisper and my heart breaks for her. She came back. She’s here, sitting next to me. We only know the Hail Mary’s so we’re good when we get to that part. The rest of the time where the prayers continue endlessly, we sit quietly. I close my eyes and try to take it all in.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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