I lost my only brother on May 19, 2004, in a tragic car accident. He was only 18 years old and had graduated from high school a mere 5 days prior. His life ended far too soon and ours were changed forever.
It's been nearly 12 years since his passing, and I'd like to tell you some cliché like "time heals all wounds" or "it gets easier with time." But the truth is that the pain of his loss, the grief that we hold onto for the life that he would have had and the person he would have become, only grows more manageable.
The grief of losing a sibling is much like any form of loss you can undergo. You experience a roller coaster of emotions. You're sad because that person is gone and will no longer be a physical part of your life. You're angry at them for dying, for abandoning you—regardless of the circumstances of their passing. You're willing to bargain anything, any part of your life, just to bring them back and to restore your family: money, possessions, happiness, even your own existence. You'll do anything to hear their voice again, to feel their warmth against your own body, to smell their unique scent just one more time. Pictures and videos of them and their belongings won't suffice. You want, need, crave their presence, but you're left hopeless, knowing that's not possible.
I was 8 years old when my brother passed. The picture you see above is one of the last I have of him, and for the most part, these are the only memories I have of him. I was so young when it happened, and with each passing year, the memories that I do have continue to fade little by little. I can barely remember what his voice sounded like. I rely mostly on stories told to me by my parents, my older siblings, and his friends. I'm incredibly grateful for their giving me insight into the person that he truly was, but I can't deny the pangs of jealousy that I feel when they divulge their ever-so-intricate memories of him.
I miss him every day. I miss the relationship that I could have had with him. I miss the love and the protection and safety of having a big brother. I miss his absence during some of the greatest accomplishments of our lives. I miss his never knowing his nieces and nephews. Most importantly, I miss having a brother, but I work each day at not dwelling on the grief I have. Instead, I celebrate the life that he had, and I cherish that time that I spent with him. I keep his memory alive. I always include him when I tell people about my siblings. I still listen to his favorite music and think of him, and I continue to observe his birthday. To me, he is still very much a person, and a part of our family always.
His memory lives on elsewhere, too. A memorial scholarship was created in dedication to him at the high school from which he graduated, and each year, it's awarded to another college-bound student. The small town that he was from continues to donate funds toward his namesake scholarship and memorialize him in any way they can. And best of all, his closest friend named his only son after him—a heartfelt tribute by which my family is so incredibly humbled.
My brother was and is loved by many. He was a good person with a big heart, and he was willing to do anything for anyone. Losing him was the greatest tragedy in my life thus far, and it will haunt me forever. But his passing has also made me stronger. It's taught me the value of family and friendship. It's taught me to take risks and to seize every opportunity that arises, because I never know if today could be my last.
Losing someone you love can destroy you and your life, but it doesn't have to. I remind myself daily to keep pushing forward for my brother, to strive harder to become someone that he would be proud of. He may not be here physically to tell me how he feels and what he thinks, but I know that he is always with me in spirit. His opinion still matters; HE still matters. He may be gone, but he is certainly not forgotten.
I love you, Bubby, and I look forward to the day that we meet again.
