Thirty days ago today, I was sitting alone, dangling my legs over the rail of Andiamo (the J/111 sailboat I race on). I arrived about three hours too early on purpose so that I could put some music on, gaze across the water, and just try to breathe for a bit in a place that I am able to get zen and get outside of myself more easily. I listened to the random calls of the seagulls, the sound of the water gently lapping against the hull of the boat. I’d watch a ripple in the water and try to follow the wave across the surface until it blended into the horizon as my eyes could no longer focus on it. I listened to the unmistakable sound of lines hitting the empty masts, as the boats gently bobbed in the harbor. In the distance, the familiar rumble of a diesel engine was rumbling as a fisherman prepared for his daily routine. On shore, the clubs’ flags were flapping in the breeze, and the sun was making its appearance on the horizon. The making of a perfect day.
All the while, my mind is whirring at all that has happened in the last 24 hours. From the shear jubilation of a 1st place win to a celebratory drink on the lawn and the slapping of backs for race a well won… to the most dreaded text message and call: “Your brother is dead.”
Surrounded by this beauty, I was enveloped by the deepest and most anguishing hurt. In a single day, I would experience the thrill of a new adventure embarking on moving into my place, the sadness of the way I had behaved the night before when I yelled at David, the sweet taste of victory, the taste of salt upon my face and skin from the spray, the warmth of the sun breaking through the cloud-cover providing a few minutes of warmth to my core, and the atrocious feeling of everything good and wonderful being sucked out of me by a couple words: “Your brother is dead.”
It’s been only a month, but for me, days are measured in minutes, minutes are hours, and it feels like only yesterday that David and I were on a bike ride or were sitting in my old apartment, talking about everything going on. All around me, people return to their regular lives—returning to their families. And I do not harbor any animosity. We move on. How many funerals have I been to where I am able to pay my respects, say a few kind words, and then resume life? It is the cycle of things.
I, on the other hand, spend every waking moment with one word teetering on the edge of my mind:
David.
When I sleep, it is the last word I think; when I wake, it is the first thing I think. During the day, I am a child learning how to crawl, leaning on things with my shaky legs, regaining my equilibrium… I build the courage to take a few steps, only to fall once again.
David.
I crawl to the next ledge, put my hands upon its solid edge, and force myself back up. Perhaps I will shimmy along the perimeter to build up my courage to let go again. I spot another ledge a few steps away and let go. Legs wobbling, arms out to balance me, breath held so as to not upset the cadence… this time, I make it to the next ledge.
David.
Today, I am an infant reborn. A grown orphan, relearning all that should be familiar. For me, I have only lived minutes; for you, it has been a month. Onto the next ledge upon these wobbly legs.
