It was 98 degrees with 90% humidity, and my thighs were sweating through a beige knee-length pencil skirt. He had to choose yesterday to kill himself, in the middle of summer, during a pandemic. It felt like a final fuck you. One last gag from a man who’d always had a dark sense of timing.
The Hebrew prayers started, and I could feel the clonazepam finally kick in. I glanced at my phone, not expecting anything, just trying to stay awake. A new message from my cousin popped up: “Sorry to bother you, but do you have the link to the Zoom meeting? I think we have the wrong one.”
Zoom meeting?
I looked up to find my aunt holding her phone at arm’s length like a tourist. Her screen was filled with video chat boxes. Another aunt was pacing along the perimeter of the men reciting Kaddish, trying to get a better angle. They were live-streaming the funeral.
I guess that was the workaround for the twenty-four-hour Jewish burial rule during a pandemic.
I turned back to the pinewood box being lowered into the ground. The same plot where my father had been buried ten years earlier — before we dug him up and moved him to Israel. Standing there again felt like déjà vu, if déjà vu came with a heat rash and medical-grade benzodiazepines.
After the burial, I sat in the passenger seat while my mom drove us out of the cemetery. A text came in from a cousin: “It was great seeing you. We need to keep in touch. Here are some pictures and videos from the funeral.”
Attached: a photo of me mid-shovel, flinging dirt onto my brother’s grave like it was a Pinterest tutorial on mourning. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I sent it to my friend Alice.
“Is this funny, or sad?”
“It’s kind of funny. But… why aren’t you wearing black?”
Fair question. I was in a white t-shirt, beige skirt, and Adidas.
“I don’t own emergency funeral clothes. I was supposed to go to the beach today.”
Afterwards, I spent days combing through his phone and laptop. Looking for a note. A reason. Something.
There was a Google Doc with 381 passwords, but nothing worth logging into.
I somehow got tasked with informing the people he’d last spoken to. His ex. His dealer. His psychologist. His high school friends.
I posted on his Facebook:
“Early Sunday morning, my big brother Gavin took his own life. He was a tortured soul, but now he’s finally at peace.”
One of his old girlfriends kept texting, convinced it was a prank. On the fifth day, she called.
“Hello?”
“…Katrina?”
“Yeah. Look, he killed himself last week. This isn’t a joke. He’s dead.”
Silence. Then sobbing.
In hindsight, maybe I could’ve been gentler. But I never liked her. I blamed her for his drug use, probably unfairly, but still.
I stayed on the line while she wailed. Then I did what I always do: tried to make someone else feel better. Told her it wasn’t her fault. That he was sick. That no one could’ve stopped it.
I didn’t even believe myself. But comforting people is a reflex I haven’t figured out how to turn off.
Later, a text came in. From her dad. “Aimee’s having a really hard time. Can you call her? She needs support.”
I stared at the screen. I was the one whose brother died. But sure, I’ll go ahead and be her grief concierge.
People often mistake my humor for denial. They think I’m not feeling anything, when really, I’m feeling too much, just not where anyone can see it.
After my father died, I learned to cry alone. I still do.
In the first two weeks, the texts and DMs came in like a flood, then slowed to a drip. When I thought about him, I panicked. Fifty years from now, he’ll still be gone. And for some reason, I didn’t feel him around. I’d felt my father, in dreams, in little moments. But not Gavin. Just silence.
I started to think it was personal. That maybe he didn’t want to come say goodbye. I’d read old texts where he called me a bitch. Maybe that’s why he didn’t reach out before he died.
When I told my mom or a friend, they’d say “No, no, that’s not true.” But it felt like something they had to say.
My doctor doubled my dose of clonazepam. I still felt sad, angry, guilty , but everything was muted. The drive to be alive? To fall in love, do something meaningful? Gone. Like someone had wiped a whiteboard clean, and I wasn’t even sure what had been written on it to begin with.
Grief didn’t come in waves. Not this time. This time, it came like a bullet train. I’d be sitting outside a coffee shop with a $7 iced latte, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
One night, I finally dreamt of him. But instead of a warm goodbye, we were arguing. I yelled, “You’re dead and I still hate you.”
Even in dreams, we couldn’t get along.
Sometimes I think about the things he’s missing.
The end of COVID.
The fall of Twitter.
Barbenheimer.
Me.
Katrina Ralbag is a writer and photographer based in New York City. Her work blends dark humor with emotional truth. She is currently compiling a collection of personal essays about love, loss, and longing, and will be a resident at Can Serrat in Spain in October 2025. She spends her days walking the city and writing in cafés.