I remember, or at least I TRY to remember. I don’t know why but it’s a
memory that I feel I should keep a hold of. A memory that didn’t make
sense to me the moment it happened 9 years ago. If this memory I have
is lost, than I lose a part of me, an important part. Because this
memory is all I have of him, it’s the last REAL moments of him that I
have.

Losing a brother and not being able to remember the sound of his
voice, the smile on his face and the feel of his company is losing all
senses of what he use to be. All that is left is my memory. A memory I
vaguely remember. I pull to bring these memories about, I look at
pictures, I hear stories and I don’t remember. Stories from older
relatives who have clear memories, as they speak about the “good old
days” a smile caused by their reminiscing stories presents itself
although their eyes are frowning. I smile along with them but envy
their memories that I can not even attempt to come about.
“He was a good man.” My mother says staring at me with cloudy eyes.
“Always happy and helping the family.” My aunt replies looking down at
the floor. I see their struggle to talk about him without being
overwhelmed with sadness. I chuckle at the complements and nod my
head. I grin and wish of getting to know this amazing man of honesty,
family, and hard work. But I can’t “Why can’t you be more like your
brother?” my mother says with an angry disappointed roar. “He always
did ‘this’ and ‘that’.” I just look away and stay silenced. “I wish he
was here and NOT you.” Words from an older sister filled with so much
hate that she is unaware these words have the ability to mentally
break some one to their knees. (Inhale) I am easily infuriated by
these comments. They crawl under my skin, burn in my chest, like
inhaling a cloud of burning tobacco smoke. It hurts. It kills me. I
clench my fists and nobody to hit, nobody to blame. A devastating blow
to my stomach, I start to feel dizzy and grow an uncontrollable rage
accumulating inside and I have no idea how to control it… (Sigh)
that’s all I could do. Breathe and hope for tranquility, hope for
relief, hope for release of the frustration caused by my lack of
memory. I need to stop. I need to stop blaming myself. I blame the
killer.

This is my time. This is my time to speak out on street violence. This
is my time to vent to my boys and all the other young thugs and gang
affiliated teens my age that think an eye for an eye makes the world
see better or that respect in the streets is more important than
respect in the classroom or those who feel power from the grip of
tec-9 or those who are too shallow minded to realize that you gain
nothing by killing a man except for blood on your hands. It is these
types of people who caused my loss of memory and took away from me
possible future memories of my brother. If it wasn’t because of people
like them I’d know the type of man my brother is, I’d know the sound
of his voice, I’d know the amazing man the family is mourning the
death of. I’d know my lost brother.