He was 27 years old. This is the anniversary of my brother’s death. I was a college student at the time and I was with him on an afternoon up in the mountains when the accident happened. He fell hundreds of feet when his rope suddenly broke while we were attached by professional climbing ropes and repelling into a deep gorge.
Despite meditation and prayers, this day remains the most painful day of my life. I miss him all the time. He was a scientist , an adventurer, a sensitive artist with a love of music and the drawing skills of our father. He was also an athlete with a profound love of life. A kindred spirit. My mentor. My best friend.
An excerpt from a book by author Marguerite Duras :
“ It was a mistake, and that momentary error filled the universe. The outrage was on the scale of God. My younger brother was immortal and they hadn’t noticed. Immortality had been concealed in my brother’s body while he was alive, and we hadn’t noticed that it dwelt there. Now my brother’s body was dead, and immortality with it. And the world went on without that visited body, and without its visitation. It was a complete mistake. And the error, the outrage, filled the whole universe. Since my younger brother was dead, everything had to die after him. And through him. Death, a chain reaction of death, started with him, the child. The corpse of the child was unaffected, itself, by the events of which it was the cause. Of the immortality it had harbored for the twenty-seven years of its life, it didn’t know the name. No one saw clearly but I. And since I’d acquired that knowledge, the simple knowledge that my younger brother’s body was mine as well, I had to die. And I am dead. My younger brother gathered me to him, drew me to him, and I am dead. People ought to be told of such things. Ought to be taught that immortality is mortal, that it can die, it’s happened before and it happens still. It doesn’t ever announce itself as such-it’s duplicity itself. It doesn’t exist in detail, only in principle. Certain people may harbor it, on condition they don’t know that’s what they’re doing. Just as certain other people may detect its presence in them, on the same condition, that they don’t know they can. It’s while it’s being lived that life is immortal, while it’s still alive…”
from The Lover by Marguerite Duras