This translation has been automatically generated and has not been verified for accuracy.First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines atUsually he calls my brother, but, sometimes, the calls come in the night and even my brother gets to turn his phone off once in a while. I’m awake, in my distant time zone, and I answer, honestly grateful for a chance to save my brother just one drop of this waterfall of misery.
The news does awaken a tortured moment of self-awareness and, with it, some understandable panic. “What the hell is wrong with me?” This is hard. There’s no explanation he will understand and even if he could, nothing would help.“Did you come?” This one, at least, is easy. “Yes.” I came, on a flight from Zurich, through Reykjavik, to Calgary. My brother, who still lives in Canada, has shouldered almost all of the burden of caring for our ailing parents.
His initial request for a big funeral had surprised and terrified my brother and me. Funeral plans had never been discussed, and it had never occurred to us that Mom would have wanted something elaborate. After her own parents died, Mom had instructed my brother and I to bury their ashes in the backyard. We planted a tree on top, but it died. I don’t suppose that counts as a decent funeral?
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