Ripples
Today would have been my brother’s 44th birthday. It’s been 22 years since he died by suicide, which means he’s now been dead longer than he was alive. It feels, simultaneously, like he’s been gone a century, and also like he just left the room so recently that the last chair he sat in is still warm.
I didn’t think I would cry today, but I am. It’s nice. I haven’t cried for him in a long time.
It’s hard to imagine what he might be like if he were still alive. So much can, and does, change in 20 years. But I’m pretty sure he would want you to pet dogs, especially the ugly ones who look like they smell bad. I think he’d want you to be plotting the proletariat revolution, or at least calling your reps. I know he’d be listening to music on the train, but with headphones on, because he wasn’t a monster. He would do whatever he could to make you laugh. He’d give you a hug, if you needed one. I think he’d help you build that retaining wall. He’d definitely make a big deal about how cute your hamster is. He would take my kid to their first concert, even if it was an artist he thought was lame, and especially if it was an artist I thought was creepy. He would take you out to dinner and pick up the check, but secretly, before you had a chance to notice. He would be sad and angry at the state of the world, but he wouldn’t be surprised, and he wouldn’t be afraid.
I think about him every time I write a letter to a voter (he’s actually part of my script). I think about him every time my kid sits down with a bag of goldfish crackers (it was Cheez-Its for him). I think about him when the seasons turn, when I dream about our childhood home, when my kids play together outside and I hear them narrating an adventure through the windows. I probably think about him every day, in a way I wouldn’t if he were still alive, and which I wish I could say is solace, but I’m not sure that’s true.
Someday I won’t write about him anymore, either because I won’t need to or because I won’t be able to, and when that time comes, it will be ok. We all fade from the world completely, eventually. But until then, I’ll keep throwing pebbles into the pond of memory, stirring the surface, sending out ripples of him, of us, into the universe.
If you’d like to read more about my brother, I wrote a whole-ass book about us.
If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide, please contact the 988 lifeline.
If you have lost someone to suicide, please know that you are not alone. Here are two resources I’ve found helpful: https://afsp.org/ive-lost-someone/
I hope you write about him forever if it feels right. It helps melt the world’s lines so we can hear the whole connection. Sending extra soft silence to hear him and prayers for comfort on the line✨
I'm just seeing this now. Ordinarily I see your emails in the morning on the train into the city, but I'm on vacation and everything's upside down. Thank you for writing about Matt. Every time you do, he comes to life again, as he was, as he could have been. It's the love element of grief peeking through, and it matters.