Making Amends

As soon as I pulled off the interstate, into my driveway and into the comforting familiarly of my own home, Walt called to say Murray had died.

He told me the story of how it happened. Walt was holding Murray’s hand. Adrienne could tell he was nearing the end because his mouth was bubbling, an indication that his lungs were failing. Walt sat at the side of his bed and watched Murray’s labored breathing. He laid his head on Murray’s chest and listened to his heart beat.

“I love ya, Brotha. Go be with Cheryl.” Walt called out through tears.

“I’m tryin.” Murray replied. Walt was still holding Murray’s hand, his ear to Murray’s chest, when our brother’s heart stopped beating.

We knew it was going to happen. We had everything pretty much planned out. Murray had seen a lawyer and drawn up a will. He tied up loose ends with the big Fs: finances and, more importantly, his friends and family. His father who left our mother with four small children when Murray was four years old, his father who had seen his son only a handful of times since he left the family, his father flew in from Florida to Kansas City to visit his son. And perhaps to proselytize, since I found his church’s brochure lying on top of a stack of photos he left for Murray.

Our brother was making amends. We were spending more time with him these last few months than we had in the last few decades. It was kind of nice to have him back in our lives.

And then he’s gone.