Aaron's lovely bones

I like to think that Aaron still attends our family gatherings. That he laughs at the stories and jesting comments. That he leans up against the wall and watches us interact with each other, especially those that have bonded as a result of his passing. 

"These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence. The connections -- sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent -- that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life." - Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones

I don't have to be religious or spiritual to feel his presence. Because even in his absence, he continues to bring people together. And that is proof enough to me that Aaron still with me. 

Carry the fire

I don't look at Whataburger the same anymore. I wince at the word "punch." My heart breaks a little when someone mentions their brother or little sister or sibling in general. 

It's been a year since I've heard my brother's voice. The days have simultaneously crawled along and zoomed by. I no longer wake up in the morning and for the first few seconds feel as if he's alive, then get the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that he's not. At least not every morning. 

It's important not to stop. Not to think. Don't think about the bad, sometimes even the good. Don't think. Because then it becomes real. Then I have to remember. I have to remember that I no longer have my brother with me on this earth. I have to remember that I'll never hear his voice again. 

But I'm not suppressing. I'm not pushing it away. I've done my opening up to friends, family, strangers, counselors. I've discussed everything. I've been to the therapy sessions and cried so much I felt dry inside. But it still doesn't change the fact that my brother is gone. It doesn't hurt any less to relive that day over and over and over again. It doesn't change that 20 years with my big brother was not enough time. Not nearly enough. I still cry the same. My heart aches just the same. No amount of time or talking will change that. 

But I'm not trying to forget. I'm just trying to not remember. I don't want to think about how at one point I was completely and entirely happy, and how I'll never feel that way again. I've come to terms with it. And that's not to say I'll never be happy again. Because I will. I am. But not like that. Not the same. Not ever. 

But I push forward. I march on. I don't think. Because when I think I get the bad thoughts again, the ones that sent me to counseling in the first place. If I don't think, I live. And I have to live. I need to. I have to carry the torch. I have to warm the hearts that never got to feel his. I want to. 

I testified as a character witness for my brother in court. 

"He was sunshine," I said. "He was that glow, that warmth, that feel-good." 

He still is. 

It's been one year. One long and quick year. And it's only the beginning. 

There's a time to dance

It's been months since I was in the room I last saw my brother in. 

Heavenly Grace funeral home held their annual candlelight vigil Dec. 11 for the families of those who are buried at the park. 

About 50 people showed - some were smiles, others had more somber looks on their faces, but all held the faux candles lit by lightbulbs, in honor of their loved ones.

There was a choir made up of kids anywhere from 6 years old to 13, who sang a variety of spiritual Christmas songs. 

There was a pastor who spoke, consoling the attendees and reminding them that our loved ones live on through us.

While he spoke, the tears trickled down my cheek as I played back 20 years worth of memories with my big brother. 

"There's a time to cry, a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance," he said.

The candlelight glowed on people's faces, revealing the reflection of the tears rolling down their cheeks. 

In that moment I cried and I mourned, but every day I smile as I'm reminded about the wonderful person my brother was.

Icepocalypse

The trip to Dallas for the National Association of Hispanic Journalists conference had been in the making since the summer. It's a chance for journalists to network and for young journalists like myself to land jobs.

It wasn't until two days before the conference that we heard the weather was going to take a turn for the cold - the really, really cold. 

We left on a Thursday morning, but the weather wasn't supposed to be bad until Thursday night. The four of us (myself, Norma, Susan and Elva) arrived safe and sound. But the next morning we woke to the shimmering white, icy streets.

Buildings, cars, plants and all were covered in ice. The sidewalks were slippery and all but one of us was accustomed to this icy terrain, but we ventured off into winter wonderland anyways, and it was beautiful. 

Everything was stock still, not only frozen in ice but almost frozen in time. The ground crunched beneath our feet, cracking with the heels of our boots.

My clothed seemed ill equipped for the icepocalypse as the wind chill stung my body. But the city sights were enough to make me forget how cold I was. 

Rock-N-Roll

Mom and dad were training for a marathon since April. It was supposed to be a family thing. My aunts, cousin, parents and myself were all going to participate.

We were going to run in honor of my aunt who passed away from cancer last year. And when my brother passed away, my parents wanted to run for him too, even though his death wasn't cancer related. 

A few of us stopped training, but my folks kept on running their miles every day. On Nov. 17 they completed their first half marathon, wearing my brother's scholarship button the whole way.

I saw them off at the starting line, amid the crazy costumes and various team shirts. Words of inspiration lined the streets.

"I run for my brother."

"I believe in you, random stranger!"

"I beat cancer and now I'm beating you."

The roads were full of runners and bikers participating in their respective courses for the San Antonio Rock-N-Roll marathon. 

I met my folks at the end. They looked tired and were drenched in sweat as they held hands crossing the finish line. But they finished what they set out to do and I couldn't have been more proud. 

Fender bender

It was production night and Norma and I decided to make a food run. 

The night began to sprinkle. 

I was more focused on my stomach and our conversation about boys to notice the truck backing out behind me. But I could have sworn I checked all my mirrors and blind spots as I reversed my way out of the parking spot.

The music was bumping in my black Chevy Cruze and all I wanted to do was get to Subway.

I was mid-sentence when I heard a thud in the back an my car jerked a little.

"Shit."

I managed to only get in two minor fender benders twice before without leaving more than a scuff on my car, but this sounded worse, much worse. 

I exited my vehicle and made way to the rear, only to find the glass around my right taillight broken. My heart sank.

The sprinkle turned into a drizzle. 

The driver of the truck who was on the other end of the thud, was inspecting her truck as well.

My eyes fell upon a somewhat large dent in her bumper. I was oddly proud that my little Cruze caused such a dent to larger dual-cab truck.

We exchange information and decided it was a mutual accident and went our separate ways.

"My dad is going to kill me," I told Norma as I once again put my car into reverse.

And I pulled out of the lot and into the night, still debating how to satisfy my stomach, the drizzle turning into heavier rain. 

World Series Champs

I sat in the newsroom with my friends and coworkers, watching the Red Sox and the Cardinals duke it out for the title of World Series Champs Oct. 31.

My heart raced with every pitch as if I were a member of the team standing on Fenway Field with the rest of them.

With the final pitch of the final out, I jumped up with my fist in the air, hugging the person nearest me, celebrating along with the Sox on-screen. For whatever reason, the Red Sox winning meant so much more to me this year than other years.

I grew up a Red Sox fan because my brother's city league team always donned the name on the front of their jerseys; my dad was the coach. Poppa text me almost instantly. He was watching the game at home with Mom.

"GO REDSOX!!! WE WON...Champions Baby!!! Just like we used to win with Aaron."

I looked at my phone, slowly sinking back into my chair and my eyes glued to the glowing screen in my hand. In my head I read the words over and over, my eyes steadily welling up with tears.

"Just like we used to win with Aaron."

I hadn't had such a rapid shift of emotions in months and almost forgot how striking the feeling is.

It stops you in your tracks, like getting the wind knocked out of you, and somewhere between smiles, tears break through and it's hard to breathe.

After regaining my composure, I continued a silent celebration with myself, images of the night's  game intermittent with memories of 13-year-old Aaron celebrating with his little league Red Sox.