I lost my brother when I was 25. He was shot and killed minutes away from my home. The fact that I can write this using nearly the same introduction as a piece I wrote about my father makes me unable to breathe.
I didn’t lose my brother. He was killed. He was suddenly snatched from my world and from the world of the many people he touched. I didn’t lose him. Someone took him away from me.
Tyrell was 28-years-old the day he was killed. 28. In his prime and reaching new levels with this craft. He was shining so brightly that I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about where he was about to go with his work. I would think “man he’s going to go really far from here.” Now he can’t go anywhere. My brother is dead and you can’t go up from death.
I’m just trying to make sense of my brother’s death. I recently hit the “acceptance” stage of the grieving process with losing my dad. I’m still struggling with the depression stage with losing my daughter. My brother was not supposed to be a part of this cycle.
I don’t want to ask why. I’ve learned that asking that question doesn’t matter. In the end, the person you are grieving for will never return to the earth. You will never get to speak with them. You will never get to laugh with them. You will never get to be with them.
Asking “why” will just leave you feeling empty and afraid. Empty because your question will never be answered. No matter how much you go through, you will never get a straight answer to why things happen. You will feel afraid because there is something out there that can shake your entire world, and completely ignore you when you ask why the ground is shaking.
I haven’t stopped shaking yet. My tremors have reverberated around my body so much that I no longer notice I’m moving.
But I am moving. That means I’m breathing. That means I’m here. A broken soul. A spoken word. A mother’s cry. A shifting presence. And there has to be some beauty in that. There just has to be some beauty in that.