The life support machines buzzed every time he laughed. It was a warning, an unwanted shock to his system, but the laughter was better than the tears. We continued to reminisce, scrolling through the photographs on his iPad—the sunset shot over Fool Hollow Lake, the Boston skyline, the bobcat perched in his Palo Verde, the air-show flybys, and all his pets—talking about better days. The ICU nurses conducted their rounds, smiling at our family’s unabashed affection for each other, but it was not a time to hold back. The fight against the lymphoma that raged through his body had been a long one. And, despite his incredible will, it was a battle he ultimately lost.
A few weeks have passed since that longest night, and I still feel hollowed out. The awareness of something missing will remain my constant companion. We rode through this life with a shared heritage. With the same passion for motorcycles and mountain roads, music, our animal companions, guns and finely crafted blades, photography, and small, almost insignificant moments shared with loved ones that are far too easy to take for granted. But our travels took us in different directions. Sometimes the roads between us stretched thousands of miles, for years at a time. Still, the same blood ran through our veins, so the distances were meaningless. Never again will I cross wooden swords with my sparring partner, nor build a fort made of grass and mud, nor ride through mountain passes at unsafe speeds with my brother at my side.