I just learned that my homeless little brother died... two years ago... of covid.

[Oopsie Daisy]

What an odd feeling this is. It's not grief. It's not sadness. --- It's like "Oh! Well that explains why we haven't heard from him."

He wasn't mentally ill, but he wasn't very bright either. He was 66 years old. He had income from SS, USPS retirement, and USAF benefits... he could (if he wanted to) have lived a humble life in a small apt, or owned his own mobile home. But he seemingly preferred to live in the "by the week" motels. When he ran out of money and was evicted, he'd move on to the next hotel whenever his check came in. In between times, he lived on the street, or in shelters.

He had no wife or family that we know of. We don't know who is cremains were given to, but she texted us to let us know what happened. --- It's so bizarre. She doesn't respond to our texted replies/questions. There's no answer when we try to call and her "mailbox-is-full" so no voicemails are possible. It seems unlikely that we'll ever know more than we do now.

It is what it is, I suppose. We tried to help John as much as we could. He wasn't in need of money and he often helped others with his benefits (I think he was being taken advantage of) but he was an adult and could make his own decisions. Even the poor ones.

We weren't estranged (in the usual sense) but he seemed to have no particular desire to keep in touch or let us know where he was or how he was doing. John was functional and independent, but his IQ and maturity was about the same as an adolescent or early teen. (Smoking was his only vice... no drugs, no weed, no booze.)

So... now we know. Now we can stop worrying and wondering. Maybe what I'm feeling is relief.

Thank you for listening (reading).