My little brother died yesterday. He would’ve been 30 years old on November 18th.
Why was it so easy to write posts about people I’d met a handful of times, and writing about my own brother is so hard?
We weren’t very close. I hadn’t seen him in about 15 years. There was some bad blood between us. Stuff that seems so meaningless now.
He loved Halloween. He loved music. He loved The Rocky Horror Picture Show, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? and a silly british claymation thing called Foxy Fables. In fact, that was his screen name before he lost internet access so many years ago.
He loved Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Were Made For Walking and tinkering with old projectors and reel to reel tape machines.
He loved a cranky old siamese cat named Mylar (called Meelo) who died when he was 12, I think. Wherever he is, I hope they’re together now.
He was a genius with anything electronic. He used to make improvised flashlights from old batteries and strings of broken christmas lights when we didn’t have power.
When he was little, he wanted to be a heart surgeon. He used to check out this video about it from the little local library in Zionsville where we grew up. He must’ve watched it a hundred or more times before we moved away.
Life was really unfair to him. He deserved a lot better than he got.
He wasn’t a bad person.
I still can’t believe he’s gone. I keep catching myself wondering if maybe it was a mistake and he’s not really dead and I still have time to tell him that I forgive him and that I knew he was a better person than he thought he was. That I cared about him, even though I didn’t think about him as much as I should have.
I wish things could’ve been different. I wish there was something I could’ve done.