Tuesday, March 15, 2011

The Ides of March

Shakespeare famously wrote about today when he depicted Caesar. "Beware, the Ides of March," the soothsayer said. But it didn't stop Caesar from being stabbed in the back by his trusted friend. Caesar met his death and the world moved on. He became a legend. Many after him would meet a similar demise, but none as poetically.

I think about Caesar and how he must have felt in those final moments. When the wound was fresh and the blood was red on his linens. What did he see? Did he look into Brutus' eyes and search for an answer? Or did he welcome death and the peace of eternal rest?

Was Brutus cold to him in those final moments? Did he say, "You deserve this,"? Or did he say nothing? After years of loyalty, trust and friendship, did it all end swift and emotionless?

Or was Brutus kind after the blade? Did he have remorse while Caesar's life faded and his blood was spilled? Did he wonder about his own vulnerability and his own weaknesses? Or did he just feel power?

I wrestle with these thoughts every year, you see. It's really nothing to do with Shakespeare, Brutus or Caesar, but more to do with my own feelings of betrayal and my metaphorical blood from the blade. I've searched for answers in the eyes of my assailant, and he always looks the other way. He leaves me unanswered and he does so unapologetically.

Today is his birthday. Fitting, I suppose. He's another year older... but really, so am I. He helped to bring me into this world before he left me because of it. But before he brought me in, he was brought in... on the Ides of March. A doomsday in history.

I can't remember the last time I told him Happy Birthday to his face. One year I had a phone number for him, so I called him. The conversation was stunted and severely short. The weather was nice, so when I hung up the phone I sat on my deck with a book. The world continued to spin while thoughts in my head kept me from concentrating on the printed page.

I've come a long way in dealing with the emotions of betrayal, abandonment, and gut-wrenching twisting inside pain. I've done a good job with hiding it. I've conquered most of my adolescent hang-ups and fears. Now I just sit here, on this dark morning, and I will myself to think of something positive.

But all I have is Caesar. If only I were there to stop the blade. If only I could rewrite history.

3 comments:

  1. I too feel the betrayal on this day. I hope your wounds are as well healed as you believe them to be, but am afraid that some wounds can never be fully healed. I love you, and hope that especially today that I've loved you and your brother enough.

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  2. You have. You never fell short.

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  3. In the Shakespearean play Cesar said "Etu Brute?" which as you may well know means "you too Brutus?" totally seeing betrayal. Something tells me those words were probably uttered as he fell. It seem like the last one to give you the good ol' knife in the back is the one you least expect. The pain of heartbreak I think overrules the pain from the blade.

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