Five Years.
I remember at your funeral, the pastor asked us to describe you in one word, and what we found was that you’re so unique - so utterly you - that we couldn’t do it. So, instead, we told stories that described you so well. Everyone else did, anyway. I was trying not to cry and failing at it miserably. Here are my stories, Nick.
I remember when we lived on the house on Skipwith and you were really into Billy Idol. And one time you were listening to “White Wedding” and you called me into your room and, pretending to be Billy Idol, dedicated the song to me because of the words “hey, little sister.” And we danced wildly on your bed.
I remember so many times we’d get into really terrible fights as children and we’d be sent to our rooms, and after we both cooled off, we’d creep to the doorway and sit just far enough inside to not get in trouble and roll or toss a ball back and forth to keep each other company.
I remember having to sleep in your top bunk bed when relatives stayed over and having you dictate to me the facts of life as you saw them, which turned out to be mostly wrong, and just thinking what a cool, wise person you were.
I remember seeing your musical in middle school and how proud I was of you and how talented you were.
I remember Christmases and camping and mountain hikes and lizard hunts and stories you told me to scare me and Greg and you helping me write my name in the snow. I remember being twirled in the kitchen in Colorado and the trip to Costa Rica and how you wanted to name the dog ‘Butthead’ and me ‘Spike.’
I remember staying up late and you letting me watch Beavis and Butthead. I remember tentatively cussing around you just to show you that I could and how, as I got older, you and Greg would offer to beat up anyone that upset me.
But I also remember you smoking in the car while you were in high school. And the arrests. And you following in Greg’s footsteps. I remember the yelling and fighting with Dad at midnight while Mom screamed at the both of you to stop it. I remember hearing how you were jealous of me because school came easily to me and you had to work so hard at it. I remember the ups and the downs. I remember how angry I got every time you stole from me. I remember making defensive jokes about my two heroin-addicted brothers to my friends at school. I remember hating you.
But I also remember how proud I was of you for busting through the cops to get to Dad when he tried to kill himself. How proud I was of you for doing so well in rehab. How proud I was of you for getting that scholarship to the halfway house in California. How proud I was of you for learning to surf and getting a sweet girlfriend and finding out that you wanted to be a substance abuse counselor for the rest of your life. How loved it made me feel when you asked me to visit you out there. How you called me on my birthday that year. How your six months of sobriety earned you an offer from your old rehab to come give a speech. How I bragged about you to my friends for cleaning up. How great those few days of having you back were and how much I loved finally having the older brother I always wanted. How much I really liked Megan. How happy you made Mom and Dad.
And how I didn’t get up that morning to say goodbye to you because I wanted to sleep. How I came home from rehearsal to find Aunt Mary Kate and Grant sitting with Mom on the couch. How I didn’t want to cry that night because I was in shock, so I made myself cry, anyway. How I sobbed at the funeral and hated myself for not saying goodbye or asking you to be careful and how I didn’t tell you one last time that I loved you and how I loathed your memorial service and how much I hated myself for wishing that Greg had died instead of you.
But mostly, I remember, every day, just how much I miss you. What a hole there is in my life without my big brother. Without Greg’s little brother. Without Mom and Dad’s middle child. I hate that my children will never know their Uncle Nick except in pictures and stories and home videos. And I hate that you’ll never have children of your own because you would have made an amazing father and an even better grandfather. And I’m so sorry that I didn’t wake up that morning. Be careful. I love you. Goodbye.
I remember when we lived on the house on Skipwith and you were really into Billy Idol. And one time you were listening to “White Wedding” and you called me into your room and, pretending to be Billy Idol, dedicated the song to me because of the words “hey, little sister.” And we danced wildly on your bed.
I remember so many times we’d get into really terrible fights as children and we’d be sent to our rooms, and after we both cooled off, we’d creep to the doorway and sit just far enough inside to not get in trouble and roll or toss a ball back and forth to keep each other company.
I remember having to sleep in your top bunk bed when relatives stayed over and having you dictate to me the facts of life as you saw them, which turned out to be mostly wrong, and just thinking what a cool, wise person you were.
I remember seeing your musical in middle school and how proud I was of you and how talented you were.
I remember Christmases and camping and mountain hikes and lizard hunts and stories you told me to scare me and Greg and you helping me write my name in the snow. I remember being twirled in the kitchen in Colorado and the trip to Costa Rica and how you wanted to name the dog ‘Butthead’ and me ‘Spike.’
I remember staying up late and you letting me watch Beavis and Butthead. I remember tentatively cussing around you just to show you that I could and how, as I got older, you and Greg would offer to beat up anyone that upset me.
But I also remember you smoking in the car while you were in high school. And the arrests. And you following in Greg’s footsteps. I remember the yelling and fighting with Dad at midnight while Mom screamed at the both of you to stop it. I remember hearing how you were jealous of me because school came easily to me and you had to work so hard at it. I remember the ups and the downs. I remember how angry I got every time you stole from me. I remember making defensive jokes about my two heroin-addicted brothers to my friends at school. I remember hating you.
But I also remember how proud I was of you for busting through the cops to get to Dad when he tried to kill himself. How proud I was of you for doing so well in rehab. How proud I was of you for getting that scholarship to the halfway house in California. How proud I was of you for learning to surf and getting a sweet girlfriend and finding out that you wanted to be a substance abuse counselor for the rest of your life. How loved it made me feel when you asked me to visit you out there. How you called me on my birthday that year. How your six months of sobriety earned you an offer from your old rehab to come give a speech. How I bragged about you to my friends for cleaning up. How great those few days of having you back were and how much I loved finally having the older brother I always wanted. How much I really liked Megan. How happy you made Mom and Dad.
And how I didn’t get up that morning to say goodbye to you because I wanted to sleep. How I came home from rehearsal to find Aunt Mary Kate and Grant sitting with Mom on the couch. How I didn’t want to cry that night because I was in shock, so I made myself cry, anyway. How I sobbed at the funeral and hated myself for not saying goodbye or asking you to be careful and how I didn’t tell you one last time that I loved you and how I loathed your memorial service and how much I hated myself for wishing that Greg had died instead of you.
But mostly, I remember, every day, just how much I miss you. What a hole there is in my life without my big brother. Without Greg’s little brother. Without Mom and Dad’s middle child. I hate that my children will never know their Uncle Nick except in pictures and stories and home videos. And I hate that you’ll never have children of your own because you would have made an amazing father and an even better grandfather. And I’m so sorry that I didn’t wake up that morning. Be careful. I love you. Goodbye.