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A close friend of mine lost her sister last week. It was unexpected, as death always really is, even when it’s visibly encroaching. It most definitely was sudden.
I didn’t really know the deceased, except that she was too young—the same age as my little sister, in fact.
My friend and I have gotten the chance to hold each other and cry. Her loss is not my loss, but it dredges up the heartache of losing my brother three years ago.
My half brother, actually—a technicality in some respects but undeniable nonetheless. With 13 years between us, we lived in the same household for maybe two of them. I was too young to remember a childhood of palling around with my big brother, but by all accounts I adored him desperately.
Warren was married and starting a family of his own before I was out of elementary school. We exchanged letters. I kept secret my resentment over being left behind. As a teenager, I began visiting annually, to a different place almost every time.
My brother had trouble staying still. He wasn’t always the best role model. He didn’t always stay in touch.
But he always had a place in his grown-up life and child-like heart for me.
We didn’t know each other like a typical brother and sister would, never even having the chance to bicker or embarrass each other. But we shared interests—running and writing—and a history that may not have overlapped by much but that meant volumes.
Shortly after I got married, Warren began a new career as an airline pilot that would have him in Boston regularly. Now both officially adults, we’d have the lifestyle and proximity to talk and see each other more often, without the warm-up time or anyone feeling like a host or guest. We could just be siblings. Maybe even get to annoy each other or stage a few practical jokes.
But that future was cut short. The last place he hosted one of my visits was in a cancer hospital, at a point in his illness when we were still hopeful but mostly terrified. When I arrived to his room—with a cot made up for me—we didn’t waste time with niceties.
“I look like Shrek, don’t I?” he said.
“Kind of, but I love you,” I admitted while we hugged.
The three days and two nights we spent together were long and heartbreaking, but I cherish them. We watched Monty Python movies on his laptop, with the bed raised up and just our feet touching. Sneaking into the kitchenette to fix us Boost/Hoodsie shakes at midnight, Warren joked that we were finally enjoying that camping trip we’d never gotten around to.
We were a real brother and sister—then, before, always.
