(Dylan is the native american in the purple)
Well, I wont lie. Last week was one of the most dark weeks I've had in a while. Saturday, March 2, 2013 I received a phone call from my aunt. She informed me my cousin Dylan was hit by a truck and died that day. After I'd talked to her I called my mother to inform her before it hit me. Like most other people, I sobbed for a while, trying to remember the last time I'd spoken with my cousin. I tried going to bed that night, but couldn't. It didn't feel right for me to stay in Moorhead while the people I grew up with were needing me to comfort them 6 hours away. After a brief talk with a college friend, I packed my bags and took off for my parents home two hours away.
I quietly crept in my house, as my parents didn't know I was coming home, and got a glass of water. My dad was just coming out of the bathroom. When he saw me I could see the hurt in his eyes, from me being hurt. My dad and I never really say much to each other about emotions, but he squeezed my shoulder tightly before going back to bed. I slept about 3 hours before getting up and talking a shower before starting my 4 hour journey to my aunts. I amazingly got my parents to let my youngest sister (8 yrs) Sara, come with me. Sara and I have always shared an odd relationship, she's always been able to comfort me when I was in distress. While we were driving to my uncle and aunt's, I thought back to the 16 summers and countless holidays spent with them. They were some of the best years of my life.
Once we got to their house my cousin Tyra came running to me, and hugged me tightly. Call me crazy, but I could feel all the sorrow she had from the loss of her brother in that hug. Tyra and I were always great friends, and kept each other sane during these hard times. I made my way around with Sara, giving out hugs until my uncle made his appearance. His eyes were swollen, the faintest line of tears on his cheeks. I hugged him with all I had as I began crying again. I've never seen my uncle so hurt or lost as I had at that moment.
It wasn't long before my family informed me on what happened. Dylan was drunk, and his friend kicked him out of their car on the highway. They got a call from friends saying Dylan was knocking on their door, but they told them to call the cops on him. Dylan began walking on the highway, apparently in the middle of the road. One car swerved, and the car in the opposite lane didn't know why until their truck struck Dylan.
Dylan was adopted, but his birth family wanted his body. After many arguments between Tyra and their biological siblings, Tyra told them they could have Dylan's body for their native funeral. We attended said funeral, two days of it anyway. They were both filled with tobacco and cigarettes. I saw his body as well, and couldn't believe how much he'd changed. His face especially, it just wasn't right. I went with my uncle for a few hours the next day while he put moccasins on Dylan's feet for his Great Journey.
I figured after the first two funerals for him, the last one, our memorial service, wouldn't have me in tears. I was wrong though. As they played threw the power point, I saw myself in around half of them with him. Dylan was one of my best friends growing up, we'd been raised together as babies and spent countless hours playing. They had a microphone go around, for stories. I knew I had to speak, just as I had to go with my uncle for the moccasin's. I spoke about us growing up, but mainly, for everyone to remember what an incredible person he was. I shared with them how every time I first got to my aunts and uncles, the first thing I would do is run into Dylan's arms. He always gave the best hugs, the ones that mean more than a simple "hello" or "goodbye". As I lost it again, Sara held my hand, understanding, even at 8 years old, how much I love him, and will miss him.
I requested to my aunt and the funeral provider that we do the same thing we did at my other cousin's funeral several years before. They bought around 25 balloons and provided pieces of paper so we could write notes/draw pictures, and send them up with the balloons to heaven for Dylan.
I'm torn. I want to hate his biological family for helping him get into alcohol and drugs, but know it's not right. All I can think about is what he saw before he passed on. Bright lights in his eyes, did he think about his family? Did he know what was happening? Did he suffer? Did he know people love him?
Burring someone I considered one of my brothers was hard. I'm again faced with the fact I don't believe in a god, but for Dylan, and everyone else's sake, hope there is.
