Left for Garbage

everyone for being there and then said, “I ask all of you filled with fear, with resentment or anger, to please open you r hearts to my family’s tragedy and find the room in your hearts to grieve with us rather than to judge us. Withhold your judgment, please, for the day the truth is revealed in this unthinkable situation. We will never be the same, whatever result comes of this tragedy, but with hope and promise and your compassion, the path will be easier for us. This is not over.”
    Then I paused to kiss the bracelet on my wrist three times. The camera couldn’t get close enough to see what was on my bracelet. It has Denise’s name and birth date on it like the ones family members of POWs wore in the sixties. Because that’s what she is, a prisoner of war, a prisoner of lies.
    I imagine the watching public thought my bracelet sported Deeley’s name, but to me, despite my grief for my niece, the funeral was my chance to let Denise know that at least with me she still comes first. Then I raised my eyes and though I was looking into the cold lens of a camera, it was my sister’s eyes I saw, Denise’s magnificent green eyes. I was crying by then, crying for her, for myself, for our loss, when I continued with, “Today I send my tribute to DMB as we all try, in each of our own ways, to find our personal closure in this dreadful tragedy. We need to display patience. DMB, you see the tears in my eyes? It’s because I am a broken soul. We remember Deeley, but on this day our family is strengthened rather than diminished. We are incomplete but we are stronger than ever, united here today and for always. DMB, you have taught me how to be strong. DMB, you have taught me how to be proud, and you have taught me to never lose hope. Most of all, DMB, you have taught how to love, and how to forgive, and I love you and I miss you.”
    I had to stop then as it hurt so much not to be able to hold her while I was talking. I hope she felt that, my loss, my longing. Thank God my parents clustered closer to me and touched me in comfort. They understand, and have always understood, what Denise and I are to each other. Their support gave me the strength I needed to continue, and after clearing my throat, I tried to put everything I felt into my voice when I finished.
    “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I will always love you and my only wish is to hold you and comfort you. You are my inspiration, and you can count on me never breaking my promise to you. DMB, I hope you see me now, I hope you know I offer my heart.”
    Some sick judgmental people will have a problem with my address at my niece’s funeral. I’ve seen it all and they will question my motives, but all I can say is that my family has been through enough now. We’ve taken all we are going to take. We want to be left alone.
    The relationship I maintain with my sister may never be understood by the plebian public, those with no comprehension of what true family love means, or how compassionate hearts breathe and survive, but maybe our family’s tragedy might have the power to help someone to be enlightened. Everyone wants the gore, and they want to see the public hanging of my sister. They want everything my sister has never deserved.

Denise Brown
    (Fibber McMom herself)

    I’m having trouble breathing tonight . I think I might be developing asthma, actually. Or, who knows, it’s a rough night for me because I’m reflecting on my past mistakes and the loss I’ve suffered, and the air feels thick and hard to breathe, even though my twelve-by-seven cell is chilly tonight. Sometimes I just lay here remembering, and it’s so painful, it hurts so bad that I can’t see the only one I need most.
    Where is he? What is he doing? Who is he with? Does he ever think of me? All those questions run through my mind and it tortures me like that prison song Reese Witherspoon wrote for the movie ‘I Walk the Line’ about Folsom Prison, and as much as I’ve given up on Italian guys, I sometimes still think of Aaron. The last time I saw him was when my mother burst in. I think about the way he looked at me that night; he looked terrified. I’d never seen him like that. I think what it was is that he was scared that he might not ever see me again and that probably made him finally realize how much he needed me and loved me, only it was too late. I think that happens to guys a lot. When I remember how his face looked that night, I can’t stop crying. He haunts