Three Hundred Sixty Five Days

365 days since the unimaginable was fully imagined. An entire year awash with sadness and a dogged determination by those around me to help me hang on. A full calendar to appreciate the love of an absolutely wonderful wife and children, a legion of unbelievable friends, brothers and sisters beyond reproach, and people in the writing world who treated me as a family friend and not just a guy who can write a story.

And still...

It’s Not Supposed to Be

You’re supposed to be standing beside me as I roll a 3-foot putt by the hole, saying, ‘Ah, that’s a damn shame.’

You’re supposed to call me on the phone after winning a bet from me, telling me, ‘You’re so stuuuuuuuupid.’

You’re supposed to call me after I step off of live television and say, ‘I know the camera adds ten pounds, but how the hell many cameras did they have on you?’

You’re supposed to be here. We are two trapeze artists, and I stand with my wrist waiting for your wrist.

You’re supposed to be here for 40 more years, making fun of me, rooting the Yankees on, side-by-side as Bruce sings for us.

You’re supposed to be teaching me new recipes, and we’re supposed to compare notes on the wife and kids.

You’re supposed to be calling me every day, and getting me involved in all the scams.

You’re supposed to be inviting me to pick NCAA teams out of a hat.

You’re supposed to tell me, like you told me two days before you got sick, that I should enjoy life instead of trying to understand it.

You’re supposed to be hoisting your kids high, and teaching them all the best swear words.

You’re supposed to be here, so proud of me and our other brothers and sisters.

You’re supposed to call each of us on weekend mornings just to catch up.

You’re supposed to cook me unbelievable meals and laugh at how much I’m eating.

You’re supposed to think right along with me on every possible subject imaginable.

You’re supposed to be my best friend.

You’re supposed to be here, and hopefully in time, I’ll understand why you can’t.

My dear brother you left me with one comfort and that’s in knowing that I’ll always know how you feel about something and that’s because our hearts always beat to the same rhythm.

You’re supposed to be here helping me to move this mountain of grief.

You’re supposed to be.

And somehow, some way, some day, I know you will be.

Because, I could always count on you.