I'm mad about the BonTon bag and mylar balloons. I've never before wanted to have an excuse to be happy about having them - right now I want them. If I had them, it would mean I'd have some legitimate hope that Mark will make it. If I had them, I'd be so consumed with faith that I have hope under all circumstances. If I had them, I'd've been so touched by my relationship with Mark that my first reaction would be to bring his most wanted item from BonTon and a mylar balloon with either a dead-ringer funny or obnoxiously inappropriate saying or picture.

Ok, maybe I'm just mad.

I had actually wondered about this - several times over the last decade. What if I outlive Mark? How would I feel? How should I feel? Should I change my perspective to change those feelings? Should I try to change his perspective to try and change those feelings? Dad wouldn't approve of my approach yet part of me truly thinks it worked for everyone. But only part of me. Today, I want it to be a big part. Yesterday I knew it was a small part. I don't know what's right or what the truth is. But I know that my brother is about to die.

At first I assumed a multi-car accident. Then I quickly calculated the various high probabilty scenarios: siezure, drinking, dope, cell phone. How would my first meeting with Lisa's parents go if Mark had driven Lisa irresponsibly to her death? I never considered the opposite scenario by the way. Not for a second until I started to type this. My extreme prejudice prevented me from ever anticipating that they tried to walk across I95 at dusk, in search of help because their car was broken. "Why would you cross *that* road?" - I know what their dog's last thought was just before Lisa died, I haven't a clue what mine was. That bugs me. If it does, why wasn't I better connected. The last mammal that would have been in the back of that car was me.

His hands are cold. Not as cold as my Dad's when we had to ID him at the morgue but cold nonetheless. Alot colder than my Dad's hands when we were in this situation 5 years ago. The whole drive down here and all morning I thought we'd have to wheel his broken-ass around in a wheel chair for a year or so - but after holding his hand after lunch I think he's dying. Our spirits aren't too good but we're still pulling for him. I just don't believe there's any push left in him to get him back through to this other side. He'd like that - I think he always wanted to be Jim Morrison.

I sat by my Dad's side every moment I could. I'm not doing that this time. I don't know why. I kind of want to but I don't. Maybe I really have given up.

I managed to sit with him when it was decided. I held his left hand and realized that he wasn't as cold as I first thought. I think my brain was expecting cold since I last saw Dad at the funeral home. I was pleasantly surprised by some involuntary spasms in his thumb, index and middle fingers. It gave me the sensation of fight. He was not conscious but his strong body was doing what it could to function. Part of me would like to think it was some signal from where he was. Dad gave me one quick look in the eyes when I saw him in the ICU and I've always held on to that as him knowing that I was there with him. I still don't totally believe that he knew but I believe enough to gain convenient comfort from it when I need it. Funny how both of them were clearly in some in-between place - not dead, not alive. Are all of us going to get that chance, to dance between what we had and what we're headed too? I don't know if what's next is scary or if what they had was good enough to miss - it's pretty clear to me that neither really wanted to go. The spasms loosened me up enough to talk to him. Not loudly - but I did talk. Even in that situation I couldn't overcome the embarrassment of hanging on in such grave circumstances. Still - I talked. I tried to keep my eyes on his for as long as I could. Prophetically, I saw a quote from Dostoevsky that day - a man spends the first half of his life developing the unbreakable habits for his second half. Well - just in case there was a miracle I needed someone with him so he could avoid being buried alive. I think I finally figured out that weirdness.

I'm ignoring time. Maybe it's some sort of compensation. If time doesn't matter than maybe he isn't dead. If time isn't what we've arbitrarily decided it is than I can fix what I didn't have the courage or time to fix before. Of course none of that is true, but it sure seems like my brain is willing that to be the case - there is no other explanation for still being awake and alert. Alert perhaps - numb, definitely.

I overpacked. I brought a sweater I knew he would make fun of.

Nillson. Cat Stevens. McGovern posters. John Lennon. Jill. Terry. Thomas. Frisbee. The Dead. Asthma. Bicycling. Carrying me home from Woodmoor. Step ball. Whiffle Ball. Running fast. Looking good in cutoffs when I couldn't stuff myself into husky Lee jeans. Tank tops. Looking like surfer Jesus right when he was probably rejecting Him. The letter he wrote me my senior year in Blacksburg. Saying "fuck" like no one else could. The safety poster for your Eagle Scout project. Placating my 8 year-old selfishness when you returned from Philmont. Driving like hell on my paper route (down the road parallel to Mrs. Redfield's) too see if I could throw from the back of the red station wagon as fast as you could drive. Going to see the Twins/Orioles series - the whole thing (how could Pat Kelly singlehandedly disrupt victory for a whole weekend?). Spending a night in the Miller/Latane' cabin. The Michelangelo poster. Housesitting in Fell's Point, listening to Wayne Garland blow a no hitter in the 9th, smelling the creme de menthye you were drinking. Incense. The Hall of Fame football game in your closet. The picture of the moon with a face on it that you could draw. Fear and Loathing in Columbus my freshman year in college. Ping pong. Developing pictures with Dad.

Mark - I loved you. Mark - I love you. I had to let go to make something work. Now that letting go isn't a choice I wonder if it was working. I'll ask that question until we see each other again. If I was wrong I hope my questioning will allow me to avoid the same mistake again with someone else. If I was wrong and you were reaching out more than I was reaching in - well that would suck. If I was right, I hope we hug before saying a thing to each other. I'm glad you found Lisa. You were happy in a way I don't think I had ever seen you.

Thanks Lisa.

Mark Morooney
B: January 14, 1956
D: February 16, 2003

Mark died at 6:34AM on February 16, 2003 after successful organ harvesting surgery. Someone has seen to it that the east has come to a complete halt as one of the most disruptive snow storms to come this way (Philly) has hit. We all get more time to swallow. Digestion is a long way off.