The First Day of Autumn (which will forever be September 1st for me), My Brother's Ghost, and the Longing of Belongness

On Sunday I had a great urge to be outdoors. It was September 1st, and I think subconsciously my entire body KNEW it was Autumn. I really don't know when the first day of autumn actually is, but I do know my body and brain are ready. Six or seven years back, I went through a hiking phase. I visited as many waterfalls and hiking trails as physically possible on the weekends. I visited places here, in SC, drove to GA, NC, and TN, sometimes leaving as early as 3am to drive 5 hours or more to hike 12-13 miles. I was physically fit and strong and felt like I could do absolutely anything. I think part of me wants those same feelings now, in a different time and space than I was those years ago. So I got in the car and drove toward the mountains. I wanted to see Wildcat Wayside Falls—I knew it was easily accessible and wouldn't require strenuous exertion. I needed to build myself back up to it. I passed the roadside entrance and continued up the mountain, following GPS. I knew GPS was wrong, but I needed the comfort of tight mountain roads darkened by full green trees. I continued up to Cesar's Head and parked. I considered getting out and going to the overlook, but there were a lot of people around, and I knew it would give me another reason to visit. I drove back down to the waterfall entrance and parked my car. There were several people enjoying the water and shade. I took some photos on my iPhone and removed my socks and shoes. The water was crystal clear and perfect. There were children playing with their dog in the water. Several people walked to the tip top of the falls to take photos. I sat on a rock and observed everyone. Once I inhaled my fill of nature, I dusted the sand off my feet and put my shoes back on. I drove on aways down Highway 8 or 11, near Pumpkintown. There's a really cool little shop there that has a cafe. I ordered a watermelon refresher that had cucumber and mint and a barbecue sandwich. I ate in my car as I headed away from the mountains. 

On the way back, I passed a beautiful cemetery. I thought about returning, decided against it, then turned my car around and went to it. I felt called to this cemetery. The first thing I noticed was this giant statue of Jesus. He was stoic and pointing to his heart. It was difficult to tell if he was suffering or begging. I touched his cloak, in hopes that only the tiniest little bit of faith might change my life. Across the road from the cemetery was a church with its own graveyard. It looked as if it had been untouched for years. The first headstone I noticed was a woman reaching, climbing up to the cross. Something about that spoke to me. The desperation of it. The hope. The certainty. So many things. I wandered around for awhile, long enough to get sunburned. I became nervous when a truck came by. It looked like maybe they worked for the cemetery. I walked back to my car and headed home. Later that evening, I sent a few of the photos to my mom. She asked if it was the Coleman Cemetery, and I said yes. She said that is where my brother, Alan, is buried. I had no idea. I felt so pulled to visit the cemetery, and now I know why. I wish I had known. I wish I had stopped and looked at every single headstone. She told me he's near the brick retaining wall, buried with the other infants. Alan Eric Fincher. 21 Jan 1983 - 23 Jan 1983.

The days after Alan was buried, the women my mother worked with came to visit her at home. My dad left to give them privacy and to grieve alone at the gravesite. They were both so young and had only been married for a little over a year. My dad had been trying to get on with Duke Power and had been calling the same man every Monday morning to ask for a job. This went on for a year. He sat at the gravesite and prayed, talked, grieved the loss of his firstborn son. When he arrived home, he checked the mail. There was a bill for the delivery of their son. They did not have insurance and had no idea how they would pay it. When he walked though the front door, my mother was sobbing. The women from work had come to tell her that she no longer had a job. They both mourned the loss of their son and now the loss of half of their income and the reality of a hospital bill for a child they would never hold again. That same day, my father received a phone call. It was the man from Duke Power offering him the job. 

I'm not sure if I have any wise words to offer. What I do know is that life is so strange at times. We can be at our absolute breaking point when we are given a gift that keeps us holding on a little longer. And sometimes there is no gift. Part of me imagines my brother was there that day, begging me to come visit. Maybe even the grave does not spare us from loneliness. Maybe family really does run soul deep. Maybe it doesn't. I wonder if the trees know. They've been around longer than all of us. I miss my older brother so much, and I never even met him. I wonder what he had been like, had he lived. If he had been able to have access to the medical technologies of today. I've always felt a little broken. I wonder if he had lived, if I would have felt more whole. This longing of belongness.