Shared Loss

His grandmother heard it on the radio while lying in bed two Saturdays ago. Bombo Radio announced- her grandson's body was found under a bridge.  That's my grandson's name. It can't be. What happened? Why?

They call the radio station and the police to make sure.

His father, my brother, identifies his body lying in the morgue.  Yes, that's my son but he wasn't born with that bruise on his chest. Or those broken legs. Yes, I will sign that paper.  My brother's tears fall between the lines of the death certificate, mixes with the ink of the ballpoint pen.

They let me know. My stomach heavy, I ask the same questions.  Say the same things.  What? What happened? But he is only 20...? Why?  When?

We don't know, they say.  The police is investigating with questions of their own.

But here we are, they say, disbelieving.  He lies right in front of us in a casket.  So many young people, lining up outside on the sidewalk near the funeral home, like Cory Aquino's wake.

My cousin in Saudi Arabia burns a candle for my brother and his son. I light my own.

I wish I could be there, put my arms around my brother and my nephew's mother. Put my arms around everyone. Find comfort in being with my family.   I make a shirt but my mind and heart are not watching the stitches of the sewing machine.

I met him when he was a chubby 3 or 4 years old. Saw his pictures before and after that.  We were friends on facebook, chatted sometimes.  Last time, he was thinking about learning another language. Like my other nephews and nieces, I know more about him from his posts on facebook. Unlike the others, I know I will not see him again.

The candle makes the air in my studio feel like a chapel.  I share the grief. I share the loss of their son, my nephew.

I wish him a good journey.

Bye, dear Kelsey.