7:00 AM, Lambert to Bradley. Add in a two hour layover in O'Hare to delay the pain.
Connecticut and death have gone hand in hand since I can remember. I've been to the Constitution State over fifty times, but only twice when there were leaves on the trees. The state is forever the same to me: cold, barren, lifeless. The Constitution State: dead, like the men who penned it.
The family hasn't been together since J passed. We had been preparing ourselves for the inevitable; Red, my great uncle, was given three months to live, nine months back. Somehow, he's still here. Now they're saying this will be my grandmother's last Thanksgiving. We've been prepared for this for a long time: everyone has their funeral suit on standby, ready to be donned at a moment's notice. But nobody had expected it to come first with Jared.
He was my cousin-twin. Born three weeks apart, to problem mothers. We were brothers; full of differences, but still the same.
When my mother first told me, I felt numb. Now, the chilled November air brings it back. The airport terminal is poorly insulated, and a draft of cold air steadily embraces me. I embrace it, too.
The Constitution Sate: dead, like the men who penned it. I send a message to Jared's sister, and tell her I can't wait to see her.
I steel myself for Black Thursday, and board the plane.
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