The Return

Half-listening to the radio on my way home from doing errands, I'm pulled out of wherever I've been by the quick story that ends the hour's news: a man from Portugal is killed while traveling—I miss both how and where, but in another country. The Portuguese embassy contacts the family, and a few days later the death certificate arrives in the mail. The body is to follow. I am already thinking of my brother, how even after seeing his death certificate, that stark finality in black and white, I let myself imagine that some mistake had been made, that he might just show up— the way the Portuguese man, after four more days, arrived not in a box but on his feet, perfectly alive, walking right back into his life as if nothing had happened, though everything had. We never even saw my brother's body, only a small carton of ashes— how could we even be sure they were his? Even in the hopeless weeks that followed, dreams came to me like visitations. In one, my brother sat with us at dinner but seemed unable to speak. In another, seeing my astonishment at finding him alive, he explained the whole misunderstanding and apologized for making us think he was dead. How strange to think my dream came true for others, far away. I know the agony they went through, the days and nights like molten lead, heavy and deformed, toxic with grief. But then they saw their husband and father return from the dead. For he was truly dead. They had the paper to prove it, now proven wrong. For no reason, they received a miracle that was denied us, and they went running out to greet him, hugging him and weeping hard for joy as they had in grief, slapping themselves to make sure they weren't dreaming. In my dream I hugged my brother with a joy so uncontainable it woke me up, and then he died again.