A Tribute to My Brother

It’s been almost seven months since losing my brother. When we were at the funeral home and asked to share thoughts or memories of him, I couldn’t. There was no way I could speak. I felt like I could barely breathe, let alone talk in front of a packed funeral home. Luckily my sister had the foresight to write a beautiful remembrance which was shared with those in attendance. My husband, and my father, both shared memories. I’m thankful for them all, because he deserved to be remembered. But I just sat there, unable to speak. So many thoughts ran through my mind, but I was incapable of speaking at that moment. I was just trying to survive the service, go through the motions, and somehow get through it without ending up a blubbering mess.
In retrospect, maybe being able to talk would have helped me heal faster. The parts of my heart are as raw as they were that day, whenever I think of him. And not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. So I thought if maybe I got it all out, put it down on paper, maybe I could move forward a bit stronger. 
I was just shy of seven when he was born, the perfect age to be a little mother hen to my baby brother. I remember holding him, kissing those delicious chunky cheeks, feeding him his bottle, rocking him to sleep. Then he was a toddler, peddling his big wheel around with reckless abandon, his little legs pushing those pedals as fast as they’d go. I remember his little green pajamas, his favorite. I remember him wanting Santa to bring him a “pwane with pooples in it” (a Fisher Price airplane with passengers). I remember him trying to pet our goldfish. I recall feeling sick when he fell on the hard tile floor in elementary school, breaking his front teeth. 
His teenage years were tough, discovering a mental illness that would plague him for the rest of his life. But even then, in the absolute worst of it, I could always see the real him underneath when other people no longer recognized him. Eventually he grew into a good sized-man, dwarfing his older sister. Somehow stepping into a silent protector role, someone I knew would be there in a heartbeat if I was ever in a jam.
As we settled into adulthood, he was the quiet one, and the most artistic. He was the only one of us siblings who could pick up a guitar and make music with it. The only one of us who could pick up a pencil and sketch. He knew music, he’d quickly pick up the words to songs and remember who sang them. I remember I’d hear a song and think, “I’ll have to ask Kirk if he’s heard this one yet”. 
He was the only one who was tall enough to adjust the top of my canvas gazebo when we set it up. It was always his job, up on the ladder, adjusting the netting. I’m not sure I’ll ever put it up again. Everywhere I look I have memories of him, so many things he created that he gave me over the years. Always prized possessions, but even more so now. 
I miss the random text messages he’d send me out of the blue. I miss hearing him talk about the details of life that he’d pick up on that others would never notice, some subtle thing in a music video or an ad on television. I miss how grateful he would always be for the smallest things, even as the cancer consumed him with pain, he somehow still found things to be thankful for. 
I will always remember how he loved dogs and how dogs loved him. I’ll remember his caring and his kindness. I’ll never forget how he always used up the entire real estate on an envelope, stretching the letters from corner to corner, and how the ones he gave me always said “Big Sis”. 
Seven months later, and I wonder how long it will be before I can remember these things and not feel them like a stab to my heart. Will there eventually be a time when I can remember these things about him, and instead of feeling the pain of the loss, just feel the warmth of the memory? I’m hoping that time will eventually come and in the meantime, I’m glad to get the memories down on paper, to throw them out in the universe, because my brother deserves to be remembered.

Kirk Douglas Corsette, 3/10/70 - 12/17/22