I Found Out My Brother Died On Snapchat.

Technically a screenshot of a post from another brother but snap all the same.

I am one of three daughters from my parent’s union. After their divorce, my father went on to have four boys with four additional women. Jerrell Jr., was the first. Unfortunately, I do not have many memories of him. Glimpses of him and his mother are faded when I try to recall them. I’ve been told at some point we were close. However, after they broke up, we were cut out of his life. Unlike my other three brothers, whom I have relationships with, by choice, Jerrell Jr. was not one of us seven.

It hurt. The unaccepted friend requests, the messages left on read, it was intentional, but there was little we could do. The brothers have seen him sporadically. They’ve exchanged conversations and shared moments, however, it never extended to the sisters. But, all three of us were waiting. The moment he would’ve reached for that olive branch we would’ve pulled him in, welcomed him, and embraced him. We would’ve laughed and jokingly reminded him that we were his only chance for vital organs, if he needed them. We would’ve included him in events and celebrated his life. We would’ve skimmed passed the past and just enjoyed being siblings.

That is how it goes when you share a problematic parent. You realize, and understand young, family is complicated, but there is always grace for someone trying. There Is always room for one more. There is always loved to be shared, if you want it., because you have to want it. Often these relationships are built from your own desire to connect. There isn’t anyone facilitating playdates and reunions. It’s on you to seek, build, and maintain these relationships on your own.

So we tried, Lord knows we tried, and it wasn’t enough. There just wasn’t enough time to change his mind. And that is the sticky part of mourning. The part that fills you with sadness and madness at the same time. See, I don’t even have memories to mourn, just dreams. I don’t have history to recount, just hope. I don’t have a brother to grieve, just a puzzle of missing pieces. Love with nowhere to go.

I typically don’t struggle with accepting death. It’s such a final act, I tend not to cry and don’t waste time lamenting over what cannot be changed. My Auntie transitioned just on Sunday. While there is no doubt she is gone much too soon, there was time before to process her pain, accept her illness, and consider the future without her here. I was able to sit with my step dad and support him through the loss of his sister, listen to my cousin speak of her last wishes, and watch in silent awe as my Granny discussed her last moments. It was solemn but there was peace and a patience with the process of release.

This… this is rushed. Without the time to even internalize this as a possibility, truthfully, I’m angry that this revelation came so abruptly. That no one thought us important enough to give a gentle delivery. That our shared parent didn’t pick up the phone immediately. That our shared sibling gave us a post without warning. That even in the end, we weren’t important enough, or mattered so little, no one considered…  we lost our brother too. And that, regardless of the complexities, this is devastating.

I won’t speak for the rest of us, but was not ready for this. I was not ready to say goodbye before saying hello. I am not ready to absorb the chaos of navigating the emotions of my siblings or the mania of my father. I’m not ready to attend his funeral, or worse, not be welcomed. I’m not ready to go to sleep and possibly wake up to another tragedy tomorrow.

I’m not ready to admit I feel nothing, and too much, and it all makes no sense because at 10pm on Tuesday, I should’ve been asleep, and maybe if I had been, this would all be different.

Grief by any other name is just as painful, and I’m not ready to admit to myself exactly how much this hurts.