I have said before, I’m really close with my family. Growing up, as my family would all confess, I could not be tamed. I went off doing my own thing at an alarmingly early age, doing what I wanted, regardless of who I hurt; it pained me to see all of them all go through my stages, but I felt it was just something I had to do. I still believe that, too.
My Father, Mother, my sister, Sylvia, and my brother, John, were always there for me. Through good and bad. A bonafide loving family. Just how I feel every family should be. When I was 20 years old, my crazy lifestyle caught up to me, and I put myself in a coma for over a month. I was supposed to die that day, and I will always wonder why I hadn’t. Some things are just better left a mystery, I suppose.
My brother, David Michael, died when I was a mere 13 months old. He was also 20 years old. I obviously never knew him, but I really wish I had. Everyone says he was great at everything and even though he was a “dick” he loved me very much. He took care of me when no one else could or would. I wish I could feel that first hand.
I still cry for the pain his death caused. I hope I never loose my child, and I dread the days I’m supposed to outlive my siblings. When I was in my coma, John told Sylvia, “looks like it’s just us two again.” They had planned my funeral, like they planned his, and we would of died from basically the same thing at the same age. Except, I didn’t die, and he did.
They say you can’t miss what you never had, but I don’t believe that. I miss him, and sometimes I swear I can feel his love.
R.I,P. dear brother, gone but never forgotten
David Michael Reza
March 5, 1970-October 17,1990