I Don’t Throw Many Bones But This One’s Too Big To Be Buried.


I haven’t seen you for years but I know you better now than I ever did growing up. Older than my dad by two years, a bitterness grew inside of you, a resentment that spread like ivy around the recesses of your mind until you were left a shell of anything you might have ever been and what have you now? Nothing. Not even a slight comprehension of what my family is going through.

You were grown when your father succumbed to a death we all knew was coming from the cancer that ate away at his spine and brain so you can’t understand what it’s like to be left behind so young and ill prepared, like I have been. You never had children so you can’t fathom the protective nature instilled inside my dad at my birth to never let me encounter the bad stuff. But you – His brother – are the enemy here and I don’t understand how someone could be so abhorrent. It wasn’t enough that you had to run to hide behind a lawyer to disavow your mother’s wishes like an insolent child desperately grasping for some sick sense of  control, nor was it enough to scream and cry until your face turned red and purple like a beet, a ripe red pear let loose from it’s branch when it’s own juices were too much to bear so once again, you threatened my dad with a lawsuit over bullshit that could have been solved by simple, civilized conversation. But civility… You’ve none of that, have you? It’s all been made evident by the fact that you barely waited until my dad’s body was cold to grasp at all that was vanishing from our tangible fists as the rocks we once held so tight turned to sand and slipped away from our seemingly careless grips. So you take and you take and you take. Just as you took from my dead father, you now take from his widow, married to him all of six weeks.

How do you sleep at night?

Where is your moral fiber?

Where is your sense of right and wrong?

For all the praying you do to your beloved god, you sure must leave him ashamed, just as I am ashamed to know we share blood, share a last name. But that name? It doesn’t mean shit. You aren’t my family. That blood, that name, it means nothing to me. My stepmom, stepsister, and stepgrandmother have been in my life all of two years and they are more of a family to me than you ever have been or ever will be again.

I am beside myself when I hear what you’ve done and now, there’s hate inside of me and it has taken root in my heart like a cancer that eats away at everything good I have left. I can’t talk to anyone for fear of screaming. I can’t look at anyone for fear of sobbing. I vomit from rage, as if the bile that coats my throat and teeth will expel some of the hate you’ve settled, sewn like a sick seed, a demented poisonous plant that grows and grows and grows with no signs of arrest.

I hope you’re happy, you son of a bitch. It wasn’t enough to bury your youngest brother. Now you have to embroider your fibers of misery into all we have left? The only comfort I have is the knowledge that you will die alone, miserable, hated, and pathetic. Or have you died already?


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