Casamir (pronounced Cashmere), I would say, was my first true love. He was that special one, you know, the one who, if you believe in soulmates, was definitely mine. I used to refer to him, in fact, as my soulmate, but I no longer believe in that sort of thing. Just as well, for that would make the shock of his passing cut me all the more. Every song was about me and him. Every character in a novel somehow related to him. I even bought a lipstick by Black Opal called Cashmere Brown -- still have it. Where I am in my life can be easily traced back to him. He was my catalyst.
There was so much left unsaid; things Casamir needs to know; things I need to know. Things I was planning to tell him. But now I can't. But I need him to know what he meant in my life. I need him to not just be asleep and out of pain, but alive and aware and listening and knowing and smiling and laughing. I need us to laugh about what silly kids we were. And talk about what Lex and Luis and Marcus are doing now. And say, "Oh my goodness, you have a kid??" And show pictures of the kids. I need him to just be there for whenever I want to contact him, even if it were only once or twice again in our lives. I need to know the kind of man he becomes and for him to know the woman I become.
His death causes me to understand for the first time why the thought of your loved one going to heaven is so comforting and why it upset people to be told anything otherwise. The religion I was raised in teaches that when you die, you're basically just in a deep sleep. Until now, I had never lost anyone that shocked me, and so thinking of people like my grandparents as just asleep was okay. But this is why you believe in life after death, whether it's heaven or a resurrection or reincarnation or whatever. That's how you cope. And it's harder to wait on a resurrection than it is to believe that your loved one is already living again.
I haven't heard his voice in almost eight years -- and now I'll never hear it again. Tragic things don't happen to people I know; they happen to other people -- isn't that how we all basically feel? According to the news report, it was about 4 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, his car crossed the median and ran into the path of an 18-wheeler. He wasn't wearing a seatbelt and was ejected from his car. He died at the scene. I force myself not to try to imagine his final moments of life. Please let him have lost consciousness before the worst of it.
I searched and found his obituary online. At least some of my questions were answered. Enough to paint a small picture of his grown-up life. It's hard to mourn alone. It's the weirdest thing. He used to cross my mind periodically over the past 7+ years, but this last year, it seems that not a week would go by with me not thinking of him. Back in May, I wrote a little card just to say hello, how are you, how's your life, etc. It would be the first contact I would make with him all this time. I finally got the nerve to mail it on June 6th. I sent it to his parent's home in Georgia. I wondered why I never got a response. He had died the day before.
I was "Googling" people that I know last night around midnight. I googled him. No results are ever found anytime I've googled him. Oh how I wish that had been the case again. No, this time, his name shows up several times, "Casamir Damon Brown, 28, died...." That's how I found out. Gotdamn Google. That is some fucced up shit. I don't know who to be angry at, so yeah, fucc Google.
Oh it feels good to get this out. I am not allowing comments to this post. Think of it as an online moment of silence. Thank you for letting me grieve.
Rest In Peace, my love.