something wrong with my eyes.
“You didn’t come home last night.”
I look him straight in the face—no problem looking at
him —and say nothing. What does he care, huh? What.
Does. He. Care?
“First your brother and now you,” he says.
My daddy knows I promised to wait to have sex. To wait until I’m married.
“I can’t watch you do the same things he did. Destroying our family. Destroying himself.”
Here’s my voice. I find it now. “Don’t you dare say anything about Zach.” I clench my hands into fists. “Don’t you dare.”
I find my feet, too. I turn around and go right back outside.
His lips were so soft.
Love you, Lili.
I just walk.
There’s no place to go, really.
But when I get to the cemetery, I know I’ve been out a long, long time. We live a good ways from the cemetery.
Zach’s burial site is on the east side, because Daddy wanted him closest to Jesus when He comes again. “He’ll come from the east,” Daddy has said. Is that Scripture too? Like fornicating?
Daddy’s written about both and preached that to the little congregations everywhere we traveled. But that’s not what he said in Africa or South America or Mexico.
There he said, “Charity never faileth.”
I walk to the farthest, most eastern part of this plot of ground. The sky looks like it’s been covered in marshmallow fluff, there are that many clouds. Every once in a while one creeps over the sun, and for a moment I feel colder.
Then there it is. His tombstone.
ZACHEUS LEE CASTLE
GONE TOO SOON
DEAREST SON AND BROTHER
I lie on the ground, right where I think his casket might be. I wish I could put my arms into the earth, put my arms around Zach, just one last time. The grass isn’t soft, but tough, strong, Florida grass.
“Dear Jesus, dear Jesus.” This is a sincere prayer. “Please let my brother hear me.”
I tell Zach everything. It’s a repeat, these words, a cry of loneliness.
How I miss him.
How I’m starting to feel alive again, but only a little bit alive. Sort of zombie-ish.
How I’m scared to death (no pun intended) to do this alone.
Without him.
This wasn’t part of my plan.
Part of his? Maybe.
But not mine.
“Why did you have to go so early, Zach?”
I wait for an answer. Sometimes—and this is the God’s honest truth—sometimes I know he’s near. If only for a moment. But not this time.
A bit of breeze moves past, and even though my eyes are closed, I imagine that the grass is bowing before that wind.
Maybe bowing to Zach.
My brother.
Once, when I was little, really little, something awful happened.
We were in South America, the whole family. And Zach and I, we couldn’t have been more than four and five. We lived in this village, helping to dig wells, when this sickness went through and everyone died. Like, I mean, everyone .
I still remember.
I remember Daddy came into the place we were staying and said, “We’ve got to go. Now.”
We left.
Everyone else stayed.
And died.
Including a little girl and her twin sister that I was friends with. Those two had thick, thick brown hair. Always braided. And tiny white Chiclet teeth. I remember.
Afterward I heard Daddy talking to Mom.
Heard Daddy telling some officials.
And Zachy got sick.
Oh, how Mom worried over him.
We left and got shots and took antibiotics and Zach got better, but no one else lived, including those two little girls I played with every day, those little girls with the brown hair and Chiclet teeth.
That night, after all that dying, after hearing what had happened,
I lay in a real bed with a light sheet and a real pillow.
Facedown.
Crying.
And this is true.
Swear.
Jesus touched me.
I felt His hand rest right on my back,
between my shoulder blades, and I felt so much better
because I knew those little girls were with Him.
I just knew it.
With a touch.
I only told Zach about that.
And he believed
“You didn’t come home last night.”
I look him straight in the face—no problem looking at
him —and say nothing. What does he care, huh? What.
Does. He. Care?
“First your brother and now you,” he says.
My daddy knows I promised to wait to have sex. To wait until I’m married.
“I can’t watch you do the same things he did. Destroying our family. Destroying himself.”
Here’s my voice. I find it now. “Don’t you dare say anything about Zach.” I clench my hands into fists. “Don’t you dare.”
I find my feet, too. I turn around and go right back outside.
His lips were so soft.
Love you, Lili.
I just walk.
There’s no place to go, really.
But when I get to the cemetery, I know I’ve been out a long, long time. We live a good ways from the cemetery.
Zach’s burial site is on the east side, because Daddy wanted him closest to Jesus when He comes again. “He’ll come from the east,” Daddy has said. Is that Scripture too? Like fornicating?
Daddy’s written about both and preached that to the little congregations everywhere we traveled. But that’s not what he said in Africa or South America or Mexico.
There he said, “Charity never faileth.”
I walk to the farthest, most eastern part of this plot of ground. The sky looks like it’s been covered in marshmallow fluff, there are that many clouds. Every once in a while one creeps over the sun, and for a moment I feel colder.
Then there it is. His tombstone.
ZACHEUS LEE CASTLE
GONE TOO SOON
DEAREST SON AND BROTHER
I lie on the ground, right where I think his casket might be. I wish I could put my arms into the earth, put my arms around Zach, just one last time. The grass isn’t soft, but tough, strong, Florida grass.
“Dear Jesus, dear Jesus.” This is a sincere prayer. “Please let my brother hear me.”
I tell Zach everything. It’s a repeat, these words, a cry of loneliness.
How I miss him.
How I’m starting to feel alive again, but only a little bit alive. Sort of zombie-ish.
How I’m scared to death (no pun intended) to do this alone.
Without him.
This wasn’t part of my plan.
Part of his? Maybe.
But not mine.
“Why did you have to go so early, Zach?”
I wait for an answer. Sometimes—and this is the God’s honest truth—sometimes I know he’s near. If only for a moment. But not this time.
A bit of breeze moves past, and even though my eyes are closed, I imagine that the grass is bowing before that wind.
Maybe bowing to Zach.
My brother.
Once, when I was little, really little, something awful happened.
We were in South America, the whole family. And Zach and I, we couldn’t have been more than four and five. We lived in this village, helping to dig wells, when this sickness went through and everyone died. Like, I mean, everyone .
I still remember.
I remember Daddy came into the place we were staying and said, “We’ve got to go. Now.”
We left.
Everyone else stayed.
And died.
Including a little girl and her twin sister that I was friends with. Those two had thick, thick brown hair. Always braided. And tiny white Chiclet teeth. I remember.
Afterward I heard Daddy talking to Mom.
Heard Daddy telling some officials.
And Zachy got sick.
Oh, how Mom worried over him.
We left and got shots and took antibiotics and Zach got better, but no one else lived, including those two little girls I played with every day, those little girls with the brown hair and Chiclet teeth.
That night, after all that dying, after hearing what had happened,
I lay in a real bed with a light sheet and a real pillow.
Facedown.
Crying.
And this is true.
Swear.
Jesus touched me.
I felt His hand rest right on my back,
between my shoulder blades, and I felt so much better
because I knew those little girls were with Him.
I just knew it.
With a touch.
I only told Zach about that.
And he believed
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