As a typical wedding goes, alcohol was served at the reception. Everyone was laughing, dancing and socializing. I remember dancing with my brother, my protector, and my twin sister, my angel.
As the evening died down, my father and uncle planned to play a practical joke on the bride (my aunt) and decorate her house with toilet paper.
The family loaded up into our Jeep Cherokee and my uncle into his Camaro. Steve, my brother, was sitting in the middle bench seat holding me and my twin sister’s hands. I can still hear my stepmother screaming at my father to slow down.
Steven squeezed our hands tighter and tighter as if that would change the fact that none of us were wearing seat belts. It’s like he knew something bad was about to happen.
Our vehicle lost traction as we exited and side-swiped my uncle’s Camaro, sending us into a vicious roll. Everything went black.
I awoke as my uncle laid me on the wet grass beside the road. All I could hear was yelling, sirens and my twin sister moaning in pain. I just wanted my brother. Fortunately for us, the police began following our cars soon after we left the reception.
Within 20 minutes, my grandparents arrived at the scene. Grandmother came to my side and held my hand. I heard a terrible scream come from my father.
“Steven is hurt bad” is all I kept hearing. The sky was crystal clear, a beautiful moon lit the sky and brilliant stars sparkled. I could still feel my brother squeezing my hand.
I was the only one released from the hospital that night. Two days later, my great grandmother and the reverend told me that my brother was dead. I wanted to die with him. Steven was the one that tucked me in at night after our mother left, who held me during scary movies, who made me smile when I was sad. He was my rock.
My family not only had to live with the pain of losing a loved one, but also the guilt of responsibility. My father has never forgiven himself for taking my brother’s life.
I don’t have pictures of the accident; I was only 8. I have thought about obtaining them, but why? I can still see the crumpled car, the mangled bodies and the stars of the night.
I just wish I could see my brother. Just one more time.
(Courtesy of 1st CBCS)
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As a typical wedding goes, alcohol was served at the reception. Everyone was laughing, dancing and socializing. I remember dancing with my brother, my protector, and my twin sister, my angel.
As the evening died down, my father and uncle planned to play a practical joke on the bride (my aunt) and decorate her house with toilet paper.
The family loaded up into our Jeep Cherokee and my uncle into his Camaro. Steve, my brother, was sitting in the middle bench seat holding me and my twin sister’s hands. I can still hear my stepmother screaming at my father to slow down.
Steven squeezed our hands tighter and tighter as if that would change the fact that none of us were wearing seat belts. It’s like he knew something bad was about to happen.
Our vehicle lost traction as we exited and side-swiped my uncle’s Camaro, sending us into a vicious roll. Everything went black.
I awoke as my uncle laid me on the wet grass beside the road. All I could hear was yelling, sirens and my twin sister moaning in pain. I just wanted my brother. Fortunately for us, the police began following our cars soon after we left the reception.
Within 20 minutes, my grandparents arrived at the scene. Grandmother came to my side and held my hand. I heard a terrible scream come from my father.
“Steven is hurt bad” is all I kept hearing. The sky was crystal clear, a beautiful moon lit the sky and brilliant stars sparkled. I could still feel my brother squeezing my hand.
I was the only one released from the hospital that night. Two days later, my great grandmother and the reverend told me that my brother was dead. I wanted to die with him. Steven was the one that tucked me in at night after our mother left, who held me during scary movies, who made me smile when I was sad. He was my rock.
My family not only had to live with the pain of losing a loved one, but also the guilt of responsibility. My father has never forgiven himself for taking my brother’s life.
I don’t have pictures of the accident; I was only 8. I have thought about obtaining them, but why? I can still see the crumpled car, the mangled bodies and the stars of the night.
I just wish I could see my brother. Just one more time.
(Courtesy of 1st CBCS)