My late brother was the most successful person I have ever known. He was both book smart and street wise. He had the tenacity of a pit bull and the people skills of a golden retriever. He had a full-time job in which he made beaucoup bucks and had side hustles aplenty as well. He had devoted friends and a family that loved him. Still, he found time for other things he loved, like music and surfing.
He was murdered in his adopted home of Jamaica (the island nation, not NY) in 2019. It always feels weird to me to tell people he “passed away” or “died” when he was violently torn from this world way too early. He didn’t just die. He was killed. But sometimes you don’t want to get into those details. We have had to accept that there will never be justice in his case. In the end, that doesn’t really matter. It won’t bring him back.
And for all the pain I feel, my heart breaks for the ones most devastated: his daughters and my parents. My own kids lost their dad/stepdad (my late ex) to not especially surprising natural causes in 2015, so I have also seen firsthand the grief of children who have lost a parent. It’s horrendous. And my parents still can’t quite process it, even now. Your kids never stop being your kids, even when they are 43 years old. I have adult kids too, and losing any of my kids at any point would absolutely destroy me.
Nonetheless, my brother packed a lot of life into his 43 years. He really lived while he was alive, for which I am both grateful and a tiny bit envious. I wish he were around so I could tell him that. I wish he were around to read this.
Rest well, little brother, and meet us when we come over to that side.
The Mia Experiment 