1991 — 1992
by Marc Hummel

He couldn't breathe on his own, and I'm not entirely sure he even wanted to. He was hooked up to some sort of long-term respirator, a briefcase-sized beige box with rounded corners. It plugged into the wall with a black cord, and into my brother's neck with a blue ribbed tube. I remember how simultaneously excited and relieved we were when he smiled. A sign that he was human, alive – not just a tiny blob of flesh kept alive by the miracles of the modern mechanized medicine. Gluttons can be thinned, depressives can be normalized. Your ailments will be corrected by the same chemist who just invented your latest obsolescence. You are imperfect; you will be fixed.

Mom and Dad have come home from the hospital without him before. Just for an overnighter, they'd say. The doctors want to keep a closer eye on him tonight. Babies can't die, I knew. God wouldn't allow it, and only white haired people die anyway.

Mom, why are you crying? Can I come in?

Daddy, is Scott coming home today? Where is he?

What do you mean he won't be coming back? What does that mean? Can I say goodbye? Can I have his room?

Every time I go back to Pittsburgh I remember a version of this story, the story that ends with the tomb stone with the headline, "HUMMEL" and the subheadings of "Scott: 1991-1992, Frederick: 1954 – , and Susan: 1957 – ."