Unapologetic progressive. Fearless activist. Plucky liberal.

Today would have been my brother’s birthday. He died six years ago, and that seems like forever and yesterday at the same time. The memories of the day he died and the following week are still vivid. I think about him all the time, but especially on his birthday and the anniversary of his death. Grief is a funny thing. Sometimes I’ll remember him and be happy for the time we shared. Other times I would do anything to hug him, and the loss hits me all over again.

A year ago today I was in Hawaii with my sister, and we raised a glass in his memory. The vacation helped distract me from brooding too much. I don’t think he would want that for any of his family and friends. He lived life large, and he would want us to do the same.

I’m re-posting something I wrote on Facebook on the fifth anniversary of his death because it still holds true:

My brother died five years ago today. He had an amazing smile and made a mean cheesecake and had an encyclopedic knowledge of planes and wasn’t ashamed to see “Star Wars” or watch fireworks with his sisters. He was a great photographer and had a strong work ethic and loyalty to his friends and family and did a dead-on Yoda impression and loved fast cars. He wasn’t necessarily the best influence; as I said at his funeral, he taught me how to swear and how to drink.

I still miss him more than I can say. I think about him whenever I see a sporty yellow car (he had three) or watch certain movies (“Top Gun”) or see Cherry Garcia ice cream (his favorite) in a store, among other things. I would give anything to have him back for five minutes, to give him a hug and hear his voice and tell him everything I never got a chance to.

My life changed the day he died in so many ways, a few of them good. I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore; it just doesn’t matter. I take fewer risks because my family couldn’t handle another loss. I’m more sensitive to other people’s grief because I know how much the smallest gestures mean so much when you’ve lost someone you love.

One of the things I realized when Chuck died was what a great extended family I have, because I wouldn’t have been able to get through those first few horrible days without them. My aunts and uncles and cousins dropped everything to be with us when we needed them. Relatives came from as far away as Kansas, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Michigan; they missed work and school to be at the visitation and funeral. That meant the world to me, and to my parents and sister. Thank you again to everyone who did that, because a lot of you are on my friends list.

This is always a tough time of year for me, so tomorrow I’m taking a few mental health days from work. I’m going to spend time at the farm and see some of my favorite people.

If you made it this far, thanks for listening to my ramblings. In closing, the three things I would tell Chuck if I could:

I miss you. I love you. I’m proud of you.

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Comments on: "On grief and the passing of time" (4)

  1. This is a beautiful remembrance of our Chuck, Molly. Thank you for your loving words. Dad & I are sometimes overprotective of you & Megan because of our loss of your brother, even tho we try not to hold you too close. The ache never goes away, the hole in our hearts, as you know, never leaves us. Dad & I reminisced this morning about the day Chuck was born and the pure wonderment his arrival brought us. As you said, family & friends brought us through the worst of our grief of losing him, and you & Megan were our reasons for going on (& still are). Our world couldn’t stop because you were about to graduate from college and Megan had a year of high school to finish. Our lives didn’t end, even tho it felt like they had. Life goes on. We love you & we’re so proud of you too.

    • This is beautifully written, too. I’m sorry for all of us that he died, but especially for you. I’m thinking of you today and I’ll see you soon. Lots of love.

    • All of you are in my thoughts and prayers.

  2. Beautifully written and lovely sentiments, Molly.

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