Christmas Morning 12/25/2009 - "Sacrament" and other late night thoughts

Yule has passed. It's 1:00 a.m., and I've just returned from the Christmas Eve candlelight service of hymns and lessons at the church Marcus and I attended as children.

At 13, we diverged for the first time in our lives. Marcus and I had been acolytes and altar boys, and it all felt wrong to me. More than ever, I felt that we were "those two cute twin boys at the service." And the Anglican/Church of England view of the world seemed, to me, limited, as I began to be truly aware of my sexual identity. And I began exploring other paths.

Marcus continued, steadfast, progressing over the next few years to crucifer and scriptures-bearer, assisting at communion, and at 18 he was told that he would soon be asked to fill a position in the vestry that had recently been vacated - temporarily.

I was there as he assisted in giving communion for the first time. His face was beatific. I've never seen him look more beautiful.

And out of respect and love for him, I took communion. I intended to take it at Christmas and Easter, for the sake of Marcus and the Parentos. But just before Advent, at the tail end of the long, green season of Pentecost, Marcus died.

I'd been in a coma, coming out of it to see Mum. And with one look at her face, I began screaming, because I knew Marcus was gone, and we'd never meet in this life again.

After that, I was well-nigh catatonic for months. I was aphasic - couldn't/wouldn't speak. And I was blessedly amnesiac about the whole episode of the car crash. I found out later that Marcus had died in my lap, killed almost instantly. I still have no memory of it.

Time passed, bones healed, and the aphasia resolved into a recurrence of childhood stuttering and stammering that had made me fodder for bullies. But this time, there was no Marcus to be my champion.

And so I began pretending that I was him, doing what he would do, speaking boldly and acting quickly and decisively. I was acting "as if" I were him. It was a game we'd been able to pull off a few times in grades four through our sophomore years. And Marcus, I discovered, was still with me . . . every memory, every moment of him.

My dreaming was blessed with his visits. We'd run and wrestle and dash into the surf on the beach, as we always had, and we'd talk of many things. Not cabbages nor kings, nor sex (Marcus had told me he was bisexual when I told him I was gay). Unlike our actual real-life conversations, these were about life and after-life and Heaven and the Summerland. I think of these meetings with him as comforting manifestations of the Australian Aboriginal dream-time.

As my stammering smoothed out, I relied less and less on playing the role of doing things as Marcus might have.

Years later, around Ancestor Night and our birthday, I still dream of him. He is still my champion, and the dreams are so vivid that I consider them true. "Dreaming true" is a way of divining, of tapping into the universal knowledge of good, evil, truth, and masks.

This was written six years ago, very early Christmas morning, remembering my bro, and grateful for the time we did have:

SACRAMENT
You would rise to take your place in line
Solemn as I never saw you
And seem almost to glide
Past the rank on rank of pews.
As you went up the aisle, your face
Seemed elsewhere, your eyes, downcast
Focused on someplace other:
Past the time and place,
Beyond present or past
Or future to a place where the three
Found themselves as one in union --
In a perfect moment removed from time
Or space or any human thing.
Sharing the communion
And turning after bread and wine
With brimming eyes,
Your voice lifted to sing:
My brother.

(love ya, bro)