There is a deep longing Residing in my belly Rising up in the hours of darkness Tears swelling, seeking out Arms of safety To be held In the love once known. The death of a brother is like no other death. It is a unique event that can only be likened to an ending of the world.
This year will mark 27 years since losing my brother to AIDS. The memory of this day is just as vivid and present as it was 27 years ago when I witnessed that final breath of life. A final breath that provided relief for a body ravaged with the symptoms of a disease that knew no boundaries.
It stole life and dignity both in what it did to the physical body and its ability to tear at the heart of the human condition. Its reputation as the gay disease portrayed by the Grim Reaper sowed fear into the social imaginary. The suffering inflicted by this disease was not enough: society felt it their right to judge and condemn those inflicted as having their just punishment for their sinful ways.
The discrimination and judgement was harsh. My brother knew this all too well. I bore witness to the hatred he endured. But he was bigger than those who judged displaying love and kindness in return. This was my brother — a beautiful man — a beautiful soul. Forever I will feel your absence in my life. Forever I long to be held one last time in your arms. Forever I treasure your memory. Forever a love for a brother that has me engaged in the melancholic work of mourning for a brother that is never done, can never be done, never finished.
This is a picture of myself, with seven of the best friends I ever had, taken in September of We spoke at churches — if they would have us. We spoke to schools, civic organizations, local groups — any group that would let us in the door.
