A little bit ago, I was in the kitchen packing lunches and loading the dishwasher and letting the dogs out one last time when the familiar voice on NPR announced that today is March 5. I stopped to stare out the window as the radio voices faded away.
Chuckie.
Today is my brother’s 61st birthday, except it’s not because he ended his life in 2019.
Chuckie.
When he was four, I made fun of how he was quacking at the ducks at Lake Shore Park. “They’re saying, ‘Hi, Chuckie,’” he said. “You can’t hear it, but I do. I’m saying hi back.”
Chuckie
When he was five years old, he played his little guitar and serenaded me with a made-up song about big sisters to keep me company while I embroidered my 4-H pin cushion. “Big sisters, they are bossy….”
Chuckie.
When he was 13, he wrote a letter to me at Kent State to let me know he would come to my rescue if any boys bothered me. “I’m small but strong,” he wrote. “I will protect you.”
Two years before he died, he started sending photos of sunsets over his beloved Lake Erie. “The water has always brought me peace,” he said.
After he died, a neighbor told me Chuckie used to swim so far out that neighbors would call his name, urging him back to shore.
“He always came back,” the neighbor told me. “He made you think he was invincible.”
Chuckie.
Little brother, I will always say your name.
May the day land gently for you.
Sending you a hug on this hard day.
The brother of one of my closest friends ended his life just over a month ago. When she told me that she was starting to be able to read again (words are her profession), I pointed her to some of your writing about Chuckie. I think in some ways we are each alone in grief but sometimes it helps to be alone together.