My brother John died in a car accident one year ago. I took his loss from my life very badly, and I know that I’ll never really get over it. He was still young when he died, only 5 years older than me at 27. It was the first time I had ever experienced the death of a loved one firsthand. Lots of my friends would talk about their grandmothers or grandfathers passing away, but it never felt like a reality to me until that night my mom called and said that she had tragic news.

That had been the first time I’d talked to either of my parents in months. I still haven’t talked to them since the funeral. Since I came out of the closet at 15, we never really got along that well. They were always trying to tell me that I was just going through a phase, or that I didn’t really know what I wanted. I knew being with guys was exactly what I wanted, but I just couldn’t ever make them understand my point of view, not even after I spent 4 years away at college. They didn’t listen most of the time, so I stopped talking to them altogether—I never answered their phone calls or returned their messages, I threw their letters away, and I refused to drive the three hours out to their house. I think they had finally given up until John’s death forced us to be together. We returned to our previous state of not communicating afterwards.

John had been a great brother. He was the first person I came out to, and he was the only one in my family who accepted me. John never asked any questions and took me for what I was, even though he was straighter than Charles Bronson. He acted as a sturdy bridge between my parents and I, always providing safe travel over rough waters. He was my best friend, and I didn’t get to tell him how much I appreciated his love before he died. The last contact I had had with John was the day of the accident, even though I didn’t actually see him. He had stopped by my apartment after work, but I had already gone over to my boyfriend James’s place. When I got back home that night, I noticed that he had left a note on the ‘fridge. He had written out the poem “This is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams, followed by “Love you bro, John.” Sure enough, I looked inside of the ‘fridge and saw that he had eaten all my plums!

All of that stuff was a long time ago, however. Being here at his gravesite brings back all of those memories, and they strangely still feel like reality to me. I came by here today to commemorate the one-year anniversary of his death. As I sit on the grass in deep thought and lost in the replay of memories, I feel a hand grab my shoulder and squeeze. I shudder with surprise and turn around to see James standing behind me. His light green eyes contrast with the dark gray clouds hanging in the sky.

“Hey Tim, mind if I sit with you?” he listlessly asks. His voice sounds distant and tired, almost as if