"My siblings were my first co-conspirators in the harvesting of my imagination." - Patti Smith
I fucking love this quote and I have for years. Not only were Amir and Yael my very first co-conspirators, they were the most present and persistent harvesters of my imagination and, for that, I'm eternally grateful. I could not have asked for two more exceptional co-conspirators, collaborators and friends.
April has begun, a month always difficult and bittersweet. Amir would have, should have, turned 43 on April 7. How I wish I could clearly visualize my brother at age 43. He was 38 when he died, still partially a child in my mature eyes. Would he always have seemed like a child to me, as his older sister? He will always be 38 - a fact that I will never be capable of grasping fully. The brutal unfairness of his absence still blows my doors off every fucking day.
And I don't believe in unfairness. I don't believe fairness is promised to anyone, anywhere. I have seen little reason to believe in karma. I don't believe people get what they deserve, be it good or bad. I believe that sometimes good, deserving people get dealt atrocious fucking blows in life while undeserving, garbage humans win at everything. Naturally, I don't believe it should be that way. That's the rational side of my brain speaking, the side that nearly always speaks the loudest.
Last night, I dreamed that my sister Yael and I were engaged to marry the Princes Harry and William. (I could not possibly hazard a guess as to why.) In this curious dream, we were in Buckingham Palace, sporting obscenely gigantic diamond rings and discussing wedding details with the princes. Amir was there, laughing his face off and snarking hard at the notion that his goofy sisters were to become princesses. He suggested Yael was excited about her royal bethrothing, while I dreaded being in the spotlight, forced to live in some cold, sterile castle, raising joyless potential heirs.
Even stranger is that Jason was there, asking me if I thought I'd be happier with Prince Harry than I was with him. (My response: "No fucking way.") Odder still is that Jason's family was there, including his deceased mother and stepfather, who congratulated me excitedly in spite of Jason's disapproval. Hours later, I am still furrowing my brow over what that shit was supposed to mean. No fever or drugs were involved in the conjuring of this bizarre scene.
Any time Amir or Jason visits me in a dream, I awaken disoriented and frustrated. When they occupy my mind during those hours I'm awake, it's because I invite and implore them to step to the forefront and to be present during my daily doings and musings. I suppose I subconsciously invite them into my nocturnal mind as well, longing to interact with them, to hear their voices, to be near them again, if only for a few precious minutes.
Amir would be turning 43 on Sunday. I will turn 48 this year, meaning I'll have had a full decade longer on this earth than my darling brother was granted. 10 years more of experiences, good and bad, of adventures and travels and laughter and hardship. 10 more years of life. How have I used those years to honor him? This question inspires and motivates so much of what I do and how I live. How am I honoring him? How am I honoring both of them?
