My brother had this funny crooked smirk that always made me giggle. He always had laughter in his eyes. He hated clothes that he thought were too preppy. He always listened to his music too loud. He had this wiry, wavy hair that I always used to ruffle. He never liked that. My brother was a man of few words, but when he spoke, he said things that mattered. He had the heart of a lamb, and the courage of a lion. We fought each other. We loved each other. We cried. We laughed. We sometimes screamed. He had the wisdom and careful thinking of a man much older than 19 years. He always said he would never get old. He was right.
Three years ago this past weekend, my brother dove into the ocean to help a friend in trouble, and he did not come back. Spring is a hard season for me. While most are celebrating new life, I am mourning a death. My brother is always with me -- in my heart, in his son's eyes and crooked smirk, in my son's name. But he is also never with me. I can't hug him or ruffle his hair. I can't tell him that I loved him more than I could have ever imagined. I can't tell him that I am afraid to grow old without him. That is something that I will never get over, or that will ever heal completely.
Ryan William
1985 ~ 2005
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