This has been an annus terribilis. Already four relatives and two friends have passed away. And summer’s lease still has a way to go.
Derek was rushed to hospital on August 8. There he presented many of the symptoms that resulted in the death of my big brother Christy in January.
My sense of foreboding was such that I remarked to my siblings that I fear Derek is heading down the same path. But I did not think his end would come so soon. After all, Christy’s end-stage hospitalizations lasted two years; Derek’s, not even two weeks. He died on Saturday morning.
Still, my family had a really good run before the Grim Reaper came knocking. For only the grace of God allowed us (15 children) to survive without nary a hospitalization, let alone a death, until Christy’s number came up.
That said, Derek had a difficult life. But it was all of his own making. It speaks volumes that the setting for my most indelible memory of him is Her Majesty’s Prison in Nassau. There I sat with him, during his relatively short stint, and listened as he sermonized about the good deeds that would flow from his jailhouse epiphany.
It wasn’t quite a Saul-of-Tarsus-to-Damascus conversion, but he took great pains to assure me that he would spend the rest of his life making our parents and the rest of us proud. He was so convincing.
Indeed, I sat mesmerized by the passion and facility with words that, some years later, would make him a terrific rapper and motivational speaker. Not to mention that, having inherited so much of our daddy’s eclectic musicianship, Derek’s trumpet and tuba playing had to have been music even to Gabriel’s ears.
Alas, when it came to living the epiphany he sermonized about, Derek fell short … again. Many of you probably have a prodigal sibling in your family. Therefore, I see no point in elaborating. But, yes, we all loved him probably too much for his own good.
Derek had a tortured soul. I pray it is now resting in peace.
He was 46.
Farewell, my baby brother.
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