Monday, 4 November 2013

Things I Stole From Him.

Four really cool white Ikea chairs.

One Queen-sized bed.

One dirty navy Deus t-shirt with amazing colours. I smell it every night.

One bottle Davidoff cologne, half-used. (Which I'll spray on the t-shirt once it's lost its smell.)

Kitchen items for the holiday house.

Neon workgear for Dave.

His big container of ashes. I don't know how we're ever going to let them go.

One smaller container of ashes to always keep. (Mum has one too.)

One black pen. Nothing remarkable about it - probably made in China. Just a bit of ink and plastic. Shipped in a container around the world to Australia, driven in a truck to some newsagent or small goods shop. Then one day Cam walks in, picks it out, buys it. Takes it home to write his suicide note.

His mug. I cast my eyes around his bedroom and his bathroom and his kitchen ... up high there was just one lonely cup, which I took. We all took his shit, as reminders and remainders. I brought the cup home and put it straight up where my very special cups go.

The cup was dirty. I made tea in it, saw the rings inside and the drop he left on the outside.

I drank my tea out of his dirty cup. Communion. Then I put the dirty cup in the dishwasher, getting it out once to look at this little trace of him.

When the cycle finished the cup was clean as a whistle. Everything gone, even all the rings inside.

Fuck I cried.

Because that's what happens after someone dies ... slowly, their traces, their essence, their DNA, gets wiped out.

Then I realised he's my brother. We're related - his DNA is IN me. And my children, my sisters, my mother. We'll all always carry some Cam around. And that's the most comforting thing I've felt since he died.

My brother died? It's not fair. But nothing ever is.

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