When I began this blog, I figured I would be flooded by contributions from the hundreds of people who knew and loved my brother. That I would find it hard to sort through and organize all of the comments, stories and memories. The flood never came.

            I have also found it more and more difficult to write about him. I think of a million things: memories, funny situations, stories no one has heard before, things I remember about him, but nothing seems to come together. It’s like a myriad fragments that float around without wanting to coalesce into anything meaningful, anything complete. Is it that Lalo’s now become a part of the past? That he’s no longer as important to us as we all claimed? Is there really a moment when you “get over” something like this?

            I suppose part of it is the natural process of the passage of time. Like John Lennon said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”. There’s always “stuff” to be done: work, meals, driving, shopping, cleaning, baths, TV. But I think a great deal of it has to do with being able to “escape” the reality of someone’s death; of wanting to pretend that nothing’s happened. That way, all of the hundreds of little memories and fragments become intertwined with your daily routine. They don’t stand out as much anymore. The intense pain, the tremendous reality of what’s happened only becomes noticeable when other things remind you of it.

            Recently, Davey Jones died. The self-same dreamboat of all the Monkees. When I heard of his death, I cried like an idiot. Sure, I loved “Daydream believer” but, come on! It’s just I couldn’t help but think, “Another Monkee!” Also, just this last Sunday, I woke up to the sound of sirens in the street. It turns out one of my neighbors, a woman near my age whom I had never really had anything to do with, accidentally fell down the stairs of her home and killed herself. She was the sister of the man who fixes my car. I felt completely overwhelmed by grief. I thought of him, of his mother, of the awful indifference with which an ordinary Sunday morning can turn into a tragic, shattering experience. And I also thanked God I had the chance to say goodbye to my brother and to live his last moments with him.

            So, then, have we really forgotten “our” Monkee? Not at all. It’s just that we don’t want to remember he’s gone. We’d rather not scratch at the wound. Maybe, someday, we’ll wake up to find it was all a terrible misunderstanding, a bad dream.

            In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to make all the pieces come together and waiting for the flood. I’m sure it’ll come, even if it’s at a drop at a time.
Susana Olivares Bari