The days since have been a blur. I watched as people who had never met this young lady did everything in their power to aid the family. I watched as my brother was broken and rebuilt a dozen times. On Monday a memorial service was held. Tuesday morning those with passports (myself, my brother, and her cousin Cathy) accompanied the remains on a trip to her family home in County Down in Northern Ireland. Others would follow shortly afterward.
After crossing 6 time zones, I arrived in a place which seems more dream than anything else. A place where my phone didn't work and there were few traffic lights. A land where everything seemed green and unspoiled. The people spoke my language but were sometimes hard to understand. I walked in marshes that were on the side of hills and stepped in a boghole. I stood atop a mountain and looked down on a hidden lake. People had gathered from all around the world and all opened their hearts to us. There was a never-ending supply of tea and the moon was pink. The clouds danced around the hills and cars rolled uphill. I actually liked the taste of Guinness and they called each other by names I had never heard before. The beaches had no sand and the stars were out of place. My brother spoke softly and cried often. Everyone seemed short and the cars seemed tiny. The steering wheels were on the other side and they always drove in the left lane.
This was the place where we placed the body of a girl that radiated joy and yet had destroyed herself. This was the place where a question never asked was answered. This was the place where I witnessed someone arrive late at their own funeral.
If this place was real, I must return to it someday. In the interim, I shall live with the image in my brain of a hundred people walking for miles down country roads and of having the honor of carrying a person I had hoped to call sister.
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