My Brother’s Eulogy

You are a shooting star, brother. Your soul blazed brilliant. Fire and light illuminating the horizon, branding your memory on the hearts of all who witnessed. The stars that shine the brightest, carving streaks in heavenly canvas of night, in a flickering moment of awe fade out of sight.

On the wall next to my bedroom dresser hangs a framed poem I brought home from my father’s funeral. It reads,

”Do not stand by my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep

I am a thousand winds that blow

I am a diamond glint on snow

I am the sunlight on ripened grain

I am the gentle autumn rain

When you awake in the morning hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circling flight

I am the soft star shine at night

Do not stand by my grave and cry

I am not there...I did not die” -author unknown

Every time I look at that thing, it reminds me of the last conversation we had. You came to the ranch last year in May, year 2019. A bittersweet reunion. I’m sorry, brother. What an unthinkable tragedy to have to bury your only son. That little boy, the baby I held in my arms, had nearly grown into a man. He was 13 years old the day he was taken from us.

For a week, we cried together, shared our journals, made up for three years lost time. I held my own son tight and wouldn’t let go. My kids were elated to see their uncle. He’s been the only man, aside from my father, to show them unconditional love. The only person to stand up for me, even during the worst of times. Neither of us knew how to make my children understand why we cried behind closed doors. It was easier to avoid telling them about their cousin. Tim was a good man, a good father, my best friend.

A day before the funeral, we left the Roadhouse to make the two hour drive to town, unprepared for what was to come. I was turning onto the exit, just a few miles from the farm, when I saw police lights flashing in the rearview mirror. We never made it to the interstate. He hadn’t been in Illinois for three years, not since the time he’d come to stay with me in Troy.

Hamel PD acted without mercy when they uncovered an old arrest warrant for something that didn’t hold merit anymore. My nightmare come to life. I don’t know how Tim kept his cool. In an instant, he were being cuffed and put in a squad car. Overcome with panic, “I can’t get you to your baby. You can’t see your son. It’s all my fault.” I heard his son calling to him with reassurance, “Don’t be sad. I’m here. Dad, it’s not me [in that casket]. I am with you.” I wish I would have told him.

I called my mom, his boy’s mother, his cousin...I went down the list of names in my phone, foolishly pressing buttons as if I’d stumble upon a miracle or money would manifest in my bank account. All the time, pleading with the powers that be, “I’m stuck. Where do I go? Won’t someone help him?!”

From the dark of my living room at Old Roadhouse Ranch, seven acres of whispering tragedy, I felt Tim’s hand on my shoulder. “Codi, wake up. Are you, ok? We’ve been trying to reach you. I made it. Someone posted my bail. I made it there.” Just like that, Tim came back home. He was there. How I wish I could’ve seen it then. He was the living dead; suffocating, incomplete. My brother, we are both ghosts now.

Three years earlier on December 1st, 2017, I was living in a cramped two bedroom apartment in Troy. Trying times. I was barely surviving; not quite alive, just breathing. I was as functional as could be. I lived day-to-day on autopilot, doing my best, within my body’s limitations while nursing a colicky 4-month-old, keeping up with my overactive Kindergartner.

Around 2:00 a.m., I was startled awake by my obnoxious ringtone. I left it lying on the pillow next to my head. Only an hour had passed since I was able to rock the baby to sleep. It was our first nap in three days. I was about to go “Hannibal Lecter” on the midnight caller when I saw “Uncle Timmy” on the caller ID. Prior to that, we’d only spoken once or twice in two years. It had been at least five years since our last reunion. I was more than happy to answer that call.

He arrived from Nashville, TN a few hours later with all his belongings. He needed to escape a toxic relationship and I was more than happy to take him in. Although there wasn’t enough room in that apartment to turn a complete circle, I wouldn’t let my brother go back to that place. For a few weeks we were back to our old shananigans. Right away we were laughing, crying, sharing secrets, even pranking the perverts who contacted me on social media. It was like we hadn’t lost a moment in 20 years.

The day he left, we went with the kids to cut down our own Christmas tree. We decorated it, made cookies, wrapped gifts. My heart was content. My brother was home. Midday, Tim sat with baby Weylin so I could rest. Weylin fell asleep for his uncle, of course. Tim laid the baby next to me and we slept soundly, for once.

Again, I was awoken by that god awful ringtone I forgot to turn off. This call wasn’t a welcome one. My son’s father called me back after 3 weeks regarding the motion for visitation I filed. I must’ve blocked most of the conversation out. I remember crying into the phone, “How could you say that? He’s your son! Don’t you have any heart?” At the time, Weylin’s father and I had a toxic, emotionally abusive relationship (or lack thereof). He wasn’t in the picture for several months. As this man was spitting venom at my already bruised and broken spirit, Tim opened the bedroom door and took the phone from my hand. He walked outside and quietly shut the door behind. Then, I heard muffled yelling through the walls.

“Who the hell do you think you are, man?! What a piece of sh*t! You have no idea how lucky you are. If I had a baby momma like Codi; she wants you to see your boy! I’ve been trying to see my son for 10 years!”

At this point, I hear his voice start to crack, angry, weeping protest at Weylin’s dad,

“I’ve known Codi for 20 years! That’s my sister in there! I see her every day with that baby, how much she loves him. She’s such a good mom! She’s inside crying her eyes out and she’s the last person in the world who deserves this bullsh*t. The one thing I want in this world...

“I’d give anything to see my boy. You take that for granted! Straighten up your act, brother! That’s no threat. I know. One day this will eat you up inside.” Tim, to this day, has been the only person to defend me. The only person who cared enough to speak up for me. I’m blessed to have known him.

Once he stepped back inside, I noticed his eyes were swollen and red, his voice horse. I couldn’t speak, overwhelmed with sympathy and gratitude. Naturally, we embraced for what felt like an eternity, healing in the presence of unconditional love and true understanding. Then, Weylin began to stir. Timmy and I didn’t say a word most of the evening, we didn’t have to. He was my family. We never needed words to express that.

The same evening, I helped him get ready for a date. At some point he couldn’t find shoes he liked to match his clothes. I have a pair of black leather Harley boots; unisex. Not that it mattered. We wore the same shoe size and I like to wear men’s shoes. I told him to try on the boots. They looked perfect on him. Moments later, I saw headlights pulling up the drive and he said, “That must be my hot date.” He gave me a hug and said, “Love ya, Codi. I’ll call you in a few hours; let you know I’m okay.” He walked out the door with those Harley boots and never came back to the apartment.

I didn’t see him again until the week of his son’s funeral. I did love those boots but I loved my brother more. I was happy to see him alive. For nearly three years I didn’t hear any word from him.

That day last summer when he showed up at the farm, he got out the car holding my riding boots. Now, I can say we’ve walked a mile in each other’s shoes.

Each day when I put those boots on, as I zip them up, I think of him. I can still feel his light surrounding me.

I understand why you left us, Tim. I don’t blame you. Something tells me you’re in a better place, hanging around with your son, and you’re exactly where you want to be. A bittersweet ending. The kids and I miss you, but you’re fully alive in our hearts, in our minds.

Finally, Rest in Peace, bro.

With love, forever and always...

Your Sister,

Codi Lynn