Joey Turner (Trigger Warning: Sibling Loss)

Three small children collide in photographs 
on my sister's Instagram stories. 

Then the oldest, transformed into a young man, holds his guitar. 
The passage of time feels like the emptiness of all the holidays. 
Why didn't I think twice when you didn't come to my wedding? 

Suddenly, I feel the static 
building up inside of my fingers, 
the trembling,
chest-cracking 
of a fallen statue. 
I see your body in the coffin 
and I am deafened.  

Joey Turner was a musician, jokester, father, son, deep-thinker, and an addict. He was—is my older brother. Writing about Joey’s legacy means pulling out the grief that lives under lock and key, a not-so-surprisingly tearful endeavor. Alongside my incredible love and admiration for him, I am reminded of the deep ache in my chest, the grief that is still so pungent. But maybe, it’s time for something reminiscent of him to exist in archives somewhere other than Facebook and Instagram.

A ten-year age gap, lives lived States away, and Joey’s struggles with drug addiction meant that when my mom alerted us all about a text or call from Joey, I jumped with excitement, waiting for my turn for a conversation with him. I loved hearing from him out of the blue: 

(Jan 6, 2015) Joey: Anyway sorry to send you a novel lol, it has been a while since I’ve been able to talk to my lil sister. You can call me if you ever want to just catch up on anything. 

(Jan 26, 2015) Joey: Hey check out my brand new song! I know u gonna love it, let me know if you have a hard time understanding the lyrics and I’ll send them to you if you do. 

(March 22, 2015) Joey: Hey little sis! I want you to read this poem I wrote today! It’s kind of dark but it has a pretty elegant point.

We exchanged writing: he sent me songs, poems, and funny videos, and I gleefully participated in this back-and-forth. When I was sixteen, my mom flew Joey to Texas, and we all spent the day at Six Flags. At the time, I was full of teenage angst, and between boyfriends. I listened to Mayday Parade, Sleeping with Sirens, and Paramore. I wore bright red, checkered skinny jeans and my eyes were slathered with black eye-liner. To my super cool, punk-rock brother, I was in my era. 

At Six Flags that day, we talked about music, walked around, and rode the Batman and the Titan. I was absolutely terrified while we ascended the Titan and I gripped the seat of the coaster as tightly as I could. Joey laughed at me— of course, he wasn’t afraid of anything. On the descent, my stomach dropped. I screamed. By the time we were done, I was exhilarated. “Can we go again?”

The next time I saw him, several years passed. I was a new mom and an undergraduate student studying English with minors in History and Religious Studies. The day he walked into my nana’s house, which was conveniently located across the street from my parents, I was reading a history book on Hitler. Nana held my baby boy, feeding him a bottle of my pumped breastmilk. 

This time around, it was obvious that Joey was not his usual self. The version of my big brother I met that day was muted, carrying pain I can only imagine as agonizing as he detoxed from several substances. He wouldn’t hold my son, and he spoke of the last few months of his life as if they were incredibly difficult. He mentioned sleeping under a bridge.

I believed him, of course, and the sadness weighed on me. My mom always says that she wishes she had made him rehab in Texas, that she wishes he had stayed. Maybe, she says, she could have prevented what happened next. 

Before he left to return to South Dakota, I texted him, yearning for more time, more closeness, wanting to fill in the gaps of so many years his presence was absent from my life. Hey, do you want to hang out for a bit this evening? I can drive to mom and dad’s. Claiming to not feel well, he declined. 

The next few years, he was rumored to be doing better, to be rehabbed, to be healthy. Like all addicts, though, he was at risk for relapse. The call that came shattered our lives. The call that came broke my heart. The call that came caused me to be reborn, to emerge, older, wiser, burst apart from the old me, never the same again. 

Joey overdosed, found by a friend who was worried about him when he went radio silent. At first, we did not know whether his death was accidental. When my mom called to tell me the news, I was sick with a sinus infection. I cried and slept for days.

The autopsy report showed that he died from fentanyl overdose.

It comforts me to believe that I carry him with me every time I choose to take risks and live present, embarking on mundane adventures. Every time I speak my mind instead of staying silent, every time I share my thoughts, ideas, and feelings, every time I take a step forward and live in my values, I am honoring my brother's legacy. To live fully awake, to heal rather than to numb, is honoring to his spirit.