Blue birds fly, so why can't I?

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/03/21/magazine/20100321-soliders-bedrooms-slideshow.html?hp

I stumbled upon this.

I am obssessed with this idea to write a play or short story about the mounments we create in our own homes to those who have passed away.

Example, my brother's old room.

Whatt follows are just some very general and very ideas.

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The room with it's rich navy walls and white corvette poster had been there everyday of her life.
Nothing had ever really changed in this mosulemem. The furniture orantation was probably the biggest switch. And the continually addition of crap into the space. If her mom didn't want it anymore or if it was going to be gone through later it all went in that room. Just like the memory of her brother.

His younger sister had never known him. He was 18 when he passed away. He had been running with friends on his college campus and quite suddenly collapsed. Or at least that is what she had been told. Little hints had been dropped here and there to her that maybe it wasn't just a massive heart-attack that killed her brother. This hints had mainly been dropped by her once dying grandmother, who in drugged induced hallicanations would look at her and mumble something like "You know your brother was taking a lot of streiods when he passed away. That's what caused him to have his heart attack." Her grandmother would then breathe deeply, with that nausating breath of sickness. Her eyes would glaze over and at times you would swear she was dead. Then suddenly she'd reveal another skelelton from the family closest.

The trouble was his sister never met him. She was born two years after his death. So when people would express how sorry for her loss they were she'd simply reply "My family appericates it but unfortunately I never knew my brother." It was like as soon as someone mentioned death everyone feels sorry for anyone involved. The problem is sometimes you are assoicated with death but you aren't affected by it. Everything is jsut sort of numb because you have no connection with the deceased even though you might even be as close as brother and sister.

The room was eerie to her, it housed some type of spirit or remain of what her brother once was. But, she couldn't quite place the enegery. She felt she couldn't because she never really knew him. It was a bit like like going to a memorial an not knowing what it was for. There was always a disconnection for her, ever present and nagging like a bad cough.

What she never rally truly comprehended until now is that just two short years aftr her brother passed away she was born. Her mother was still in the greiving process for the majorty of her life. She never quite understood those implications on her life till now. That was why she was always so nervous and worriesome.
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I think it's just fasincating those photos or rooms full of life but sterile and empty.
It's an amazing juxataposition.

Meditation with a Mint Julp.

She had gotten carried away. Her body felt like is was lulling along on top of dewy mist, akin to walking while in a drunken haze. She was always a sucker for a man who could really work a suit. Not just wear a suit but really owned the suit he shrouded himself in. She had almost an eccentric obsession with men's fashion, the clean lines and loose fit. Nothing was ever too tight or too over powering. A man could just put on a suit and suddenly he would instantly gain more glances from women. She longed to find a man who wanted to wear nothing but suits even though she knew this was an utterly ridiculous fixation. But, she couldn't help herself. Business men and business attire were her fetish.
Most would find all of this in one word pathetic, a sort of prehistoric preservation of the early tertiary 1950's period. Which during barbaric cave men ruled the land laden in Brioni or Brooks Brothers. All the while wielding giant gold gilded pocket watches and stainless steel monogrammed money clips. Clips that would unfold only at the mention of their spouses allowance. Her personality wasn't dwarfed by the 1950's female persona. On the other hand she was quite out spoken and kept to herself just fine. She didn't need a man nor really desired one. She just enjoyed men. Thoroughly. Utterly. And completely enjoyed everything about them. There was something she couldn't quite explain about the appeal of the delicateness of cuff links , a tie clip, or a nicely detailed handkerchief.
Perhaps she should have been born a man. But, then she wouldn't be able to worship the world of fashion without be called a fop she mused. No, she knew she was indeed supposed to have been born a woman.
A woman who longed for a man who could wear a suit. One who got as captivated by The Great Gatsby as she did, a man she was pretty sure she'd never find. Then again we never wholly ever get what we ask for...
Then again if she ever did find this man he'd be more then deadly to her health.