pandora's box

I freaking love Fall. I mean everything about it.. the pumpkins, bonfires, sweatshirts, pumpkin spice lattes, Halloween costumes, jumping in piles of gorgeous-colored leaves with the kids, you name it.. I love it.

There is a nostalgia that blows in with the first autumn breeze that has always made my heart skip a beat. It reminds me of a dream childhood, the whimsical laughter of my family as we roast marshmallows around a bonfire, clinging to my brothers' arms as we sit on the couch listening to my parents read us scary stories. Memories frozen in time from what seems like eons ago.

For the past three years, a hatred for Fall has entwined itself into the magic of my favorite season. Like cream swirling into my morning coffee, there is no separation of the love and hate that exists in my heart for this time of year.

Oh Fall, how can I still love you? You are merciless in activating recollections of the night that ripped the heart out of my chest and altered.. everything.

The crunch of a leaf underfoot induces the graphic flashback of being restrained as I sob and claw wildly against the paramedic who held me back from my brother's dead body. The crisp wind that once blew in caramel apple-scented enchantment throws my mind into the back of an ambulance, sitting with my parents and Mike, crying with a mournfulness I didn't know existed. The trace of bonfire-infused air that once made me giddy prompts the remembrance of clutching the side of an ambulance, throwing up until everything went black.

I guess you could say the month of October makes me a little frantic. It generates a nonsensical perception of.. betrayal. As if it was the pumpkins, ghosts and candy corn that took my brother away. Sounds foolish but.. I suppose that is grief at its finest.

So.. that said.. you get it when I say I love autumn but absolutely loathe October 14th, right?

This time of year just makes me feel so.. mad hatter-like (that's as legit of a description as I can come up with). Every year at this time I just start wishing there was something I could do.. something more than going to his grave, more than missing him so much my heart could explode.. something to keep his memory alive, to remind the world my brother is still very much here. He's not gone and he never will be.

It popped into my head that I want a tattoo in his handwriting that says, "I love you, lil' sis." He'd written it a million times throughout the years-- on birthday cards, letters he'd sent when he traveled down in the south for a few months several years back, sticky notes, you name it.

Funny how ideas like that send a spark of hope zipping through my veins.

The problem being, there was a catch to it. (*sigh* Isn't there always?!) In order for me to find his handwriting.. it meant opening THE box. My Matt Box.

Looks funny to see that written down. I suppose until someone close to you dies you might not understand the sacredness of a box of memorabilia belonging to them. Or how just the thought of opening it makes you want to throw back ALL the whiskey.

The box has not been open since a month after Matt died when I filled it to the brim with all-things-Matthew and closed it up tight. In hindsight, I suppose I was hoping to conceal some grief inside and take even the slightest edge off the pain.

Grabbing the box from the top shelf in my closet, I sat down cross-legged in front of it.

Criss-cross-applesauce, Mommy, I heard Ella's little sing-song voice in my head.

I stared down at the box, almost expecting it to burst open like a jack-in-the-box causing an explosion of Matt keepsakes to satiate the room.

Resting my elbows on my knees, head in my palms, I bit my lip, starting to second guess the whole idea. I knew full well that cracking this box open had the potential of making my day go to hell within a matter of moments.

There's a reason this box hasn't been opened. It's not that I don't love thinking about Matt and all of my memories of him but sometimes it's just.. too much. Too sacred. Emotionally, it's the equivalent of taking a baseball bat to the chest a couple dozen times. Same goes for talking about him.. I can only reminisce about him with a handful of people because Matt and his memories are revered to the utmost extreme.

So there I sat, drumming my fingers against my cheek.

Just open the f'ing box, Mel. You're not Pandora. It's just.. stuff. Matt's stuff, yes, but for the love of God, OPEN IT.  

I found myself having to remind myself Matt was not in there. My heart rocketed into my throat.

Just breathe, Mel, just breathe.

Slowly, I undid the latches on the ends of the box.

Snap, snap.

A blue button-up shirt folded neatly on top immediately captured my attention. An image of him wearing it flickered alive. I couldn't help it.. I took the bait-- grabbed it and before I could get it to my face to breathe in the essence of my brother, hot tears stung my cheeks.

Shit, I thought to myself, maybe this box was never meant to be opened.

Too late. You can't unring a bell.

As much unimaginable grief as this box contained, I found myself delving deeper and deeper into it. Becoming submerged in my own galaxy of grief and searching frantically for.. what? Not just my brother's handwriting. For an answer. For.. him. Anything that would make me feel closer to him.

I rocked back and forth as I read over hundreds of cards sent from family and friends, delicately ran dried rose petals that had been on his grave against my cheek, half-smiled as I held the guitar-shaped incense holder I had bought him fifteen years ago in Jamaica, pawed through so many of his old guitar picks, drawings and "letters" to Uncle Matt that Patrick and Anna had scrawled in the days after his death, cried AND laughed looking at pictures of he and I with our arms around each other, drunk as all hell while we were in Hawaii as teenagers.

And then.. I found it. I found what I was looking for. A letter from him. He had written it to me when he visited Georgia several years ago. Sure enough, "I love you, lil' sis" was scrawled across the bottom in his handwriting.

For a moment it felt.. magic. Like he was saying it right to me.. at that exact moment.

Have you ever cried AND laughed at the same time?

I'm so thankful I opened that box. As bittersweet as the waves of memories that crashed into me were.. the indescribable warmth of feeling him with me.. even briefly.. somehow made it easier to breathe.

I guess what I'm getting at with this blog is.. you guessed it.. I miss my brother. A lot. In so many ways and dimensions it's hard to grasp and impossible to put into words.

I'll never stop keeping his memory alive and I feel like it's my duty as his sister to ensure he isn't forgotten.

Ten days from now will be the third anniversary of his death. Not that the month of November is going to make missing Matt go away but for some reason.. this month is just so unbelievably difficult to get through.

With that.. I love and hate you, October. Go quickly.. please go quickly.