Turn Around

My brother died on Friday, January 23, 2026.

He was 63.

He lived longer than my sister, who died at forty-four.

And longer than my father, who died at fifty-seven.

And longer than my mother, who died at sixty-one.

What a strange roll call.

A death call.

Macabre.

I'm a faithful woman, and I know all the things.

I've suffered enough loss that I've been told all the things.

I've probably even said all the things when trying to comfort someone else.

All the things are our attempt to bring relief to the hurt, for the person grieving and for the person standing nearby, feeling helpless. 

There's no way around it.

We all walk the road of grief, and we each do it differently.

I keep thinking about the word gone.

It's such a nothing word until it isn't.

She's gone to the store.

He's gone to work.

She's gone out.

He's gone.

Same word, different universe.

I'm incapable of writing a tribute to my brother, Benton, because I can't speak of him in the past tense.

Not today.

Besides, the English Major in me insists on the present tense.

The little sister needs it, too.

At least for now.

So presently, I see his homecoming.

Please indulge my imagination.

Benton sits in his living room.

It's a room he knows well, the one with his favorite chair, his everyday things, his familiar life with everything in its place.

And then our mother walks in.

He can't believe his eyes.

He jumps to his feet as he blurts, "Mom!"

She throws her arms around his neck, and he lifts her like he's a teenage boy again.

Twenty-five years is a long time for a son to go without his Mama's hugs, and vice versa.

She squeezes him so tight he feels the world's pulse against his chest.

Benton closes his eyes, and for a moment, it is enough, just her, just this.

When he opens his eyes again, he is no longer in his living room.

Benton is experiencing a world he can't yet comprehend.

A paradise.

"Where am I?" he asks.

Our sister walks up behind him and taps him on the shoulder.

He pulls away from Mom and sees her face for the first time in twenty-three years.

They hug and weep because their shared history has finally found its way back to them.

Benton feels it rush forth the second he meets her eyes.

"You're home, little brother," she says before pulling him in for another tight hug.

Benton cannot absorb the beauty, the peace, the all-consuming love.

Mom moves back in, and the three of them hold on to each other as if holding on is its own kind of language.

Then two arms circle them all, steadying them.

Dad is there.

Benton turns, and they are face-to-face.

Our father, once bald and thin from illness, is restored.

They lean in until their foreheads touch, and Benton doesn't need words for what he feels.

There are none.

They all stand in the majesty of the moment as their truest selves and love one another without the old limitations, without the sharp edges life on earth can give to love.

Here, love is not veiled by old wounds.

Mom says, "There are a lot of others waiting on you."

Benton looks into the distance and sees a gathering of souls.

"Is that our family?" he asks.

"Maw Maw? Paw Paw? Uncle Ronnie?"

My sister answers, "Yes. They're here. And others, too. Even a few of your friends."

"And Jesus?" Benton asks. "Do I finally get to meet Jesus? Is He here?"

Dad takes Benton's arm, looks him in the eyes, and says, "Of course, son. He's here."

"Where? When can I see Him?" But before the words fully leave his mouth, Benton feels an undeniable Presence.

Dad says to my wide-eyed brother, "Son, turn around."