The Hardest Part of Visiting Pleasant Hill

After driving around the area where I lived during my youth, I drove toward Old Hwy 35 along the brow road. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, cold, and a bit dismal as I relived memories. I slowed when we approached Memorial Gardens and without thinking, I turned into the cemetery.

My eyes heated with tears well before I came to the gravesite. Over the years, I stopped by many times, but never had I ached from such loss. Perhaps it was a combination of seeing the vast changes in the my former stomping grounds, getting to reminisce with my friends and classmates for the first time in years, and facing the fact that none of us are promised tomorrow. At the funeral, I was in too much shock to grieve. After all, none of our family expected his death.

In other blogs I’ve gone into great detail about the tragedy in July 1991 when my eight year old brother was shot and killed and how his death affected me. I couldn’t leave Alabama without saying goodbye to him.

In eight short years, Bubba, my little brother, touched the lives of so many. Not only did we grieve, but his teachers wept, his fellow students did, too. His best friend in school still returns to visit his grave. That’s how much this little guy meant to those in his life. His friend left a card one Christmas and inside the card it said: “I still miss you.” How touching is that? He left a teddy bear one year, and if you look on Bubba’s grave marker, you see two hot wheels cars.

Bubba was fearless. We attended Maranatha Baptist Church at the time, and he and his twin sisters were supposed to sing a song together that they’d rehearsed at home. When Sunday came, the twins backed out, but he ran to grab the microphone, and he sang the song boldly. I’ll never forget that. Such courage. At that age, I know I didn’t possess his confidence.

He died the day after our mother’s birthday, which also happened to be on my oldest brother Chris’ birthday. Even though Chris had never met Bubba, Chris came and was a pallbearer alongside me. That means the world to me.

As I visited his grave this past Sunday, so many memories washed through me. Good memories more than bad. The games we played. The times he went fishing with me. All good memories. Though he’s gone, these are what I carry with me and what lives inside me. Those will never die for as long as my life goes on.