packetrat

Home again, after a long, hard drive back from the north, where my family gathered for mutual support after the death of my brother.
I spoke with friends who were with him that morning, and got some more levels of detail about his state of mind. His friends were legion, supportive and loving, and reached out to the family. There was a line two hours long at the wake; people just kept coming.
Back when he was young, I gave my brother a 1972 Fender Stratocaster that I had bought for $200 from a shipmate in the Navy. It had been strung left-handed, had sailed around the world, and the salt air had started to rot its internal electronics. He had it rebuilt, and it was his guitar for years.
Not too long ago, short on money, he had sold the Strat. But a few weeks ago, he bought it back, and had brought it to a shop to get it set up again. It was in the shop when he killed himself. It was like he was getting ready to return it to me.
The Strat now sits here at my feet in its case. I played it today for the first time in almost 15 years, and it's a thing of beauty. Some weathering here and there (and some discoloration of the head, from the time he burnt his apartment down) give it that much more character. My son says it's like out family jewel.
My brother was the family jewel. This is what I have left that carries his echoes.