Goodbye

On Easter Sunday 2020, my mom and I drove the near empty roads of Long Island past the signs warning us to “Stay Home, Save Lives.” It was just us and the trucks heading 65 MPH over the George Washington bridge. The surreal vista of a world in shutdown matched the empty feeling of dread about what was to come. We drove for five hours to Syracuse, NY and a familiar house full of unfamiliar sadness. It was the last time I saw my brother, Funmi.

Naturally, I drove right past his house and had to turn around. There were already too many cars out front and, on first blush, one might’ve mistaken it for an all-too-forbidden party. But although it was a house filled with love and some smiles, the “party” was only a sad celebration of a life cut short.

Funmi had been sitting outside and was half-carried by his eldest brother Foluso, too weak to walk the few steps toward a waiting chair. There were hands everywhere: adjusting his blankets, adding pillows, stroking his knee, and rubbing his head. He was exhausted by the excursion outside but with his eyes closed still had the strength to ask if we wanted anything to drink. Ever the humble host.

Much of the drive up, plans had been made to wear our masks and keep our distance but those were long forgotten in the deep and needed hugs with Fatima, Funmi’s mother. My soul drank deep in the hugs that day. Seeing Funmi in that state was to know his death was near and the emptiness could have swallowed me whole. But the touch of his family brought me a comfort a didn’t know I could have.

Eventually, we moved Funmi into the bedroom so he could get a semblance of comfort and some much needed sleep. His neighbor’s brother came and changed some of the dressings. The time slipped away both too slow and too quick. We needed to leave soon so we could make it home by dark; there were no hotel rooms available during the pandemic. So we made our way into the darkened bedroom for what would be a final goodbye.

The blanket was pulled over his head, so we tiptoed in. My mom was hesitant but I pointed out the light of his cellphone peeking through his sea turtle blanket. We came in and called out to him. When he pulled the blanket off and looked up, we could see those beautiful brown eyes. The glazed over look was gone and this was our Funmi.

My mother was at a complete loss for words. This was her heart-child. He was her son and my brother in all but blood. There was nothing she could say that wasn’t conveyed by her warm and gentle touch as she stroked his head. If Funmi could purr like a kitten, he would. He turned his head into her hands and the soothing washed over him and filled the room. Then it was my turn.

I can’t say I had planned a speech. In the weeks leading up to this, we had dozens of texts, and I even sent a video message, conveying everything I ever wanted to say to him. I could only think of one last thing: “You’re the best friend I ever had.” I hugged him and held my forehead to his tightly. We exchanged argumentative compliments back and forth, as we usually did, exalting the other above ourselves. I didn’t expect the sobs that were welling up. I had to let go eventually and, before we left, he had one last request, “Remember me fondly.”

As if there could ever be any other way.

Nicole Garofolo, East Moriches NY