Grieving A Brother

 

"I say not this to them that be wise, for they wot it well; but I say it to you that be simple, for ease and comfort: for we are all one in comfort."

 Julian of Norwich, Chapter IX

 

In the numbness of grief, snatches of thought bring me back to my sadness. These words of Abbess Julian remind me of the comfort I felt in the days leading up to Vic Arnott's memorial service, and on the day itself, that the love and sorrow that I was awash in were equally shared by the others who loved him most, particularly his son, and my sisters and brothers and our mum, but also the many young people whose lives he touched.

This is my cri de coeur. With all its errors and inconsistencies.

Thank you, love that persists despite all obstacles, all failures, all flarings of rage and blame, that you carry me through the darkest hours of life. Thank you, brother, for your existence, for your comforting effect on my scorched soul and heart.

Let every word I write for you be a leaf fallen on a quiet stream. Let it move smoothly along the flow, leaving, let go by my sad fingertips, and may those silent, skimming leaves be prayers of acquiescence, of acceptance turned to joy, some day, some distant day. May the sun's eye glance on them as they travel, catch on snags and windfall, enter the waters again and journey on. May each word, each leaf, each prayer be reflected back to you, brother, your soul a butterfly, moving on, moving on.

I am steeped in sadness unfathomable. I am sorrow, resting on this bank. My beloved brother gone, gone, gone.

May I find my sisters resting on this bank. There, one behind that screen of osier, and one below, stretched out on that rock, and my brothers and our mother and his son — so many voices leave their own words dropping into this stream, rising on soft spray into the air, disappearing into the sky as they are sipped up by the sun.

This comfort is incomplete. It is a beautiful raft, but it cannot bring you back. We live with our chests torn open, Victor, by your loss. Like storm-blasted trees with ribs and heart laid bare. We will live this way, forever, until time softens us again.

I wonder if you ever had the slightest inkling how much you were loved.