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In The Shaddow Of a Dead man

By , Lewiston, ID
“Shh… Daddy’s sleeping,” my mother told me I had said that dreadful day as he lay silently in the casket. I was only two and a half years old and that was the easiest thing for me to comprehend. He was nothing more than asleep. Dead was still a word I was yet to learn. His eyes were closed and thus to a young child, when that was the case, it meant they what asleep. I didn’t know it would last forever.

Though it’s not the fact that he died that causes me such sorrow but it’s the fact that he had a choice. He had committed suicide by cop, which is when someone threatens a police officer with an empty death threat just to get themselves shot because they cannot do it on their own. The worst part of the whole situation is that my mom and my step dad both currently work at the Police Department where the men who shot him work. I don’t blame them, but so many nights I have dreamed that I could somehow go back in time to the day right before my brother’s birthday when he had died and stop them and save his life but it’s a dream that can never be.
As you can probably already tell, my life has always been far from the fairy tale story. It has only consisted of pain, heartbreak, lonely days, and just finding ways to avoid the pain. I used to have a hard time standing tall because deep within I was burdened with the haunting thought that I wasn’t a good enough reason for him to stay alive.
The only things that I have left of him are the faded memories that we shared, the pain that I currently bare, and the last thing he ever gave me, a happy meal toy of Gonzo from the Muppets ridding in a boat from the movie Muppet’s Treasure Island. The memories are few but in my mind they are enough to get me though to the next day and allow me to remember who he was.
In today’s time, many people often tell me: “It happened years ago. Why can’t you just let move on?”
I just simply chuckle softly to myself. Even a lifetime may pass by and the pain will still remain. It doesn’t matter whether it was a second or a million years, the pain of death will always burn through your broken heart.
It’s hard to believe that someone who has experienced so much pain can actually be sane but there is one thing that has helped me and eases the pain. Writing. It helps me find my way with the words that are begging to emerge onto papers. When somebody dies, there are things that we must find that sooth the pain that otherwise would hold us down.
Sometimes I wonder if maybe somehow he is helping me with my dream to become a writer by guiding me with his wings.





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