Act III

How are you doing? But no, really, how are you? Seriously, let me know.

I spent the morning watching Marcos from people I love, drinking iced coffee, cleaning out my closet, buying books at our library book sale, and thinking about how this coming Friday (June 27th) will be Matt's birthday.

Just a few days ago was the 9-month anniversary of his death. Nine months is as long as it takes to fully gestate a human, and yet I can't quite fully grow into the realization that he's not here. Some days I go the whole day without thinking of him. Other days, he is all I consider.

On those days, I feel his memory like a bright patch of sunlight on a spring morning. He's with me as I stretch, drink my morning coffee, and get ready for work. He's with me in every interaction I have with other people. He's with me as I say to strangers and friends, "Where did you come in from today? How do you find Cooperstown? How's your family? What did you do last weekend? What's new?"

He's with me when they answer, as I breathe in their experience and stories. He's with me in the drama of work at a busy brewery. He's with me as I talk to kids about life in the 19th century at the museum. He's with me in the silence as I draw and walk. He's with me as I drive home and talk to him like he's sitting in the passenger's seat, like we used to in junior high before he could drive.

In a perverse cosmic reversal, he is not here, but I am.

His death has delivered a juxtaposition I do not understand, but which also makes perfect sense, and it is this:   

My brother is dead; he left at the end of the second act. The third act is just beginning, and I'm left stunned onstage at his abrupt exit.

I also know what happens next: The play goes on.

I must cover/not cover the shock. I must take a deep breath, turn to my fellow players, deliver the next line, and continue on. I must use my voice, plant my feet, adjust my shoulders, and move the story forward--all while being acutely conscious of the man just offstage, standing in the shadows.

It's dark. I can hear people coughing and talking just beyond the curtain. I take my place, ready for the following act. The curtain silently rises, and as the lights come up, I hear myself say, "How are you doing? But no, really, how are you? Seriously, let me know."

Seriously, let me know. Your line is next.