My sister used to drive me to school every day in her 1989 Cabriolet convertible, which would later become my first car.
One morning, as she was backing out of our driveway, she somehow managed to reverse in to the driver side door of my brother’s brand new (to him), black pick-up truck.
It crunched loud and deep, and we both did the terrible act of continuing the drive to school.
My brother loved that car. It was big, and loud. He was 18, and it was the first car he had bought for himself. He bought a custom-made skull knob for the shift, and a loud soundsystem that let us know he was home. It was still new, and we ruined it.
We went though the day at school, and the fear of having to tell him marinated. There’s no way he wouldn’t have noticed. The dent was huge, the evidence was there. We’d destroyed this new thing he loved.
We got home, and almost immediately my sister started crying. We went in, shaking and scared, and told him what happened.
He went outside to look at it, and did the most amazing thing.
He just started laughing.
He was laughing at us, for being so terrified of him, and so heartbroken on his behalf.
Because, after all, it was just a fucking dent.
We went back inside.
He never fixed it, and after he died, my sister drove me to school in that black, beat-up truck.
Today is his birthday. Last year around this time I had a massive anxiety attack, which resulted in calling my mother at 2am, telling her I was worried I was running out of people to love. I realize now that that number is going to fluctuate, not just decline. I have Lilly now. It absolutely fucking kills me that she’ll never meet her uncle. The only thing I can do, is to try to have the slightest bit of the influence he had on me, on her.
We’re gonna start with laughing at dents.
4 months ago • 3 notes
