'He Wanted Only Time'

My brother’s yahrzeit – the first anniversary of his death last summer – is approaching. His death was the most intimate I have experienced. I spent most of the last two weeks of his life with him, in hospital and hospice, and observed the moment of his death. 

Ken could be difficult. He was contrary and often bitter. We several times went years without speaking, and our relations were often a test of character. He brought out some of my own bitterness, but also our blackest senses of humor. 

He started smoking cigarettes at age twelve, never seriously gave them up, and they killed him at age sixty-nine. In hospice I offered to buy him a carton of Raleighs (our mother’s brand: “Save the coupons!”) and that was the last time I saw him laugh. We were brothers and blood won in the end.  

Thanks to Mike Juster I’ve learned of the poet Jean L. Kreiling who has just published a seven-poem sonnet sequence, “My Brother’s Last Year,” in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal. In the first sonnet she writes:

 

“But he retains his reason and his wit,

so much so that it seems clear he’ll survive;

they say he won’t.”

 

Kreiling’s poems are a detailed account of the mundane things surrounding dying and death. I remember in the hospital my brother was still reading books, able to hold his granddaughter and talk about Montaigne. His mind was intact, which, despite all the evidence, suggested he would eventually get out of bed and return to his life. As Kreiling puts it, “He’s still him.” By the time he entered hospice he could no longer speak or, apparently, listen. His son and I sang to him but I don’t think he heard.

 

Survivors savor their survival. We can’t help it. The life instinct is powerful. Kreiling tells us: “To grow old is a gift.” She writes:

 

“This may assuage

my sense there’s nothing I can do, although

a visit’s nearly nothing. Yes, I care;

that’s what my presence demonstrates, I know,

but it will make him strain for things now rare

or difficult: the teasing repartee,

a walk outdoors, shared meals and memories.

He reassures me that he feels okay,

though I watch him declining, by degrees.”

 

The death of a loved makes us pause to assess the state of our own values. We ask, “What is Important?” Kreiling’s final sonnet:

 

“Not long before the end, he made it clear:

there was so little that he wanted — just 

to stay with those he loved, not disappear

into the latter part of dust to dust.

So many of us want so much: we crave

the shiny toy, the extra buck, and more

when less would do — stuff that will never save

our souls or bodies. I knew that before

my brother’s diagnosis, and today

I can’t claim to have unlearned pointless greed.

I find, though, that it’s easier to weigh

the worth of things desired, to measure need,

to understand there isn’t much I lack.

He wanted only time. I want him back.”