1962. The "live free" times at Coney Island, New York.
My dad and his brothers thought it would be cool to go buy some unregulated Indian Ink, steal their mom's sewing supplies and rig up a device to tattoo their themselves.
Knowing their mom would be upset with this idea they thought, collectively, "if they permanently scarred themselves in ink, it should at least be something within reason". So, the word "L.O.V.E" was inscribed on their knuckles. The "L" starting on their pinky, the "O" on their ring fingers and so on and so forth. A silly idea seeing my dad was only 12 years old at that time, but it was a bond that these brothers shared not knowing how it would be such a monumental time in the lives of their kin decades later.
Fast forward to the last day of the year 2005. My two brothers, Shawn, Brian and I were drunkenly sitting around a table mourning the death of our grandfather who had just been taken off life support earlier that day.
Multiple shots of whatever throat burning, vomit inducing libation was available in my house were consumed that evening, some great stories of our lives shared, (ones we knew, ones we didn’t) and even some revelations of some of the shameful shit we did to each other growing up. It was a day I will never forget.
It was at this time one of us had the idea. Since we were all together, which was a feat that could only come to fruition because of the untimely death in our family. (We all lived almost exactly 1500 miles apart from each other. One of us was North East, one was South East and the other was Mid West). We thought that it would be honorable to get the same tattoo that our father got with his brothers 43 years earlier.
The next morning, hung over and with almost no sleep, we shuffled our way into a tattoo parlor to forever mark ourselves with the same "LOVE" tattoo our father and his brothers shared.
Unknowingly this moment in time would be one of the last all three of us would be together, ALIVE.
January 2012, as my family and I stare down at the almost lifeless body of my brother, Shawn, I see multiple hands and the word "LOVE" scattered everywhere. One tattooed hand was on his head, another holding Shawn's tattooed hand, another lay on his chest and mine wiping away the tears from my mothers face. It dawned on me that a moment like this should be forever immortalized in a photo. I summoned my father and brother to bring their hands together as well as the dying hand of Shawn and place them on his chest together with mine.
It was the last time I touched my brother. It was only a few hours later, while I was on a plane heading back home that my brother, Shawn Eric Agger, passed. He is forever missed.
This may sound crazy and believe if you may, just minutes after completing this submission for Storytellers: The Collective, I walked outside to play with my two boys. No sooner had I stepped into the sun this butterfly landed on my arm. Startled for a second, the first thing I could think of was to grab my phone for a picture. I moved a little too quickly and he flew off, circled around me and landed right back in the same spot. This time allowing me to capture a picture of him. Then he spread his wings once or twice while I was photographing before flying away.
Doing what most of us love to do I immediately posted it on Facebook. After a couple of “likes” and "oohs & ahhs" a friend posted something I was not aware of. She believes butterflies come to us from those we love who are no longer here. She had no clue I had just completed a story about my brother just minutes before. Shawn must have sat with me as I wrote about our last moments together.
Russell Reich
Russell survived the battle of the demons inflicted by the streets of Somerville, Massachusetts.
He skipped town with his girlfriend, landed in the Midwest and became a father of two boys.
He has always had a knack for things that inspire.
Mainly music, but anything that took him away from the bad memories or the hustle & bustle
of work/home life could evoke him to create just about anything he had the time for.
