Author: Richard Alan Scott
Rhode Island, USA
Seven years ago, I lost part of my heart and self.
My eldest brother Walter and I were so close that it is hard to put into words. At the risk of ruining part of my latest novel, a fictional memoir, I was born when my parents were forty, basically. Walter, their first child, had eighteen years on me. That's right. He had graduated from high school when I was born. Strictly a Catholic family back then, he was not only my brother but also my Godfather. I've known his wife Helena as long as I've known him. I saw him get married when I was three and my nephew and niece that came soon after grew up with me. My brother considered me one of his kids and his kids were my little brother and sister as far as I was concerned.
He died at age 74 in 2013 from complications of sepsis in his stomach that traveled to his brain. My sister-in-law says he was speaking in tongues at the end. I got to go to Ireland with him and other brothers in 2004, and he and I went out weekly as drinking buddies from 1974 to his death, often along with my brother Alfred and Walt's son Glenn. He was a staunch conservative and he and I could talk politics all night without getting mad. I would call my politics to the left of Bernie Sanders, or as I like to say, Trekkian (global unity, lol.)
I bring this up because in my journal about dreaming, this last of three entries takes a happy/ sad and sometime troubling turn. Of course Walter has appeared frequently in my dreams since his demise. Clear as day and being himself completely (funny, smart, affectionate, and loving). He respected me and my brain and he often looked to me for conversation the older he got. I was always the driver and often the tour guide, as I'm good at agendas and travel, and he was a willing passenger.
The first time he was hanging out in my dream after hitting what he called "the long dirt nap," Al and I had quite the conundrum. Just who was going to tell him he was dead? I was surprisingly against this, me the reality king.
"Just let him enjoy himself," I argued.
"He really should be told," was Al's stance. Being my dream, I believe I won.
The next time wasn't so pleasant. We were all walking in that mall I told you about two entries ago. Walt was weak, sick feeling, he fainted and I caught him in my arms.
"I love you, kid, you know that?" he said, as often in life, looking up at me.
I cried, "Walt no. No Walt. Don't go; don't go, please Walt, please, no!"
He died in my arms. I woke sweating and crying.
When I've come upon him multiple times since in dreams, it takes me awhile to realize that things aren't just normal. Jeez, Walt is dead. He shouldn't be here, but I'm glad he is. I'm not going to spoil it.
"Why haven't you been calling me, in so long, Dick?"
How do you answer that one?
"Walt, what was it like?"
"What was what like?"
"Dying. Where are you now?"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
I think I will get better at communicating with him in the future.
When we were all in Ireland, we went to pubs like three times a day, and one lunch break we were behind time, and when we walked around the corner, our tour bus was leaving.
"Nyah," we screamed like the Three Stooges, chasing it, waving and yelling.
They stopped. Our good-humored Guide, Pat Frawley, greeted us with:
"We were goin' to look for you lads."
I see that story as a metaphor.
If my relatives and spiritual friends are correct, of course, and there is an afterlife.
"Walt. My brother. I'll be lookin' for ya, lad. I'll be lookin' for ya."