For Evan

You said something funny and I couldn’t stop laughing—the kind of laughter that is so intense you end up making no noise at all— your body simply convulses with joy. Usually, we were doing nothing and that’s what I loved about being with you.

Evan passed away in 2020 after battling depression and using substances as a numbing agent for that pain. It had been a longer battle than I realized; before he died, I thought we told each other everything, but I found out the hard way that that wasn’t true. I’ve had my own struggles with mental illness but Evan and I felt that we were somehow different from the rest of the family. We joked about it—that our older brother turned out well while we were busy trying to stay alive. We also spoke candidly about our struggles and relied on each other for support that was often unspoken, but never unknown. 

I really wanted a little brother. Something about being the only girl in my family was appealing to me and meant that every day, with brothers, would be an adventure. As adolescents, Evan and I were the same height and often shared clothes and shoes. I have drifted away from most of those tomboyish tendencies, but growing up with two brothers did not lend itself to being a girl who played with Barbies and wore makeup. 

By the time he graduated from high school, Evan was 6’8” and towered over me. He played basketball, loved disc golf, and mastered any skill he decided to learn, including how to hand-toss pizza crust. He also possessed an uncanny and impressive ability to recite quotes from television shows or movies after seeing a scene just one time. I remember him perfectly delivering lines from the movie Tommy Boy, making my brother, dad, and I laugh until our sides ached. 

One of Evan’s best friends avoided me after his death. After some prodding, she admitted that she had a hard time talking to me because I reminded her so much of Evan. I felt honored to be likened to him because Evan had never met a stranger. He was incredibly kind, engaging, and funny, with a dry wit that sometimes meant you walked away from a conversation before you processed the punch line. 

We spent many evenings on various porches, banished because we wanted a cigarette. Sometimes, we talked about benign things, and sometimes we talked about the mire of being an adult. I struggled with my mental health for many years before I knew that Evan was also battling something unseen. 

It’s four years later, and my grief moves in and out of the stages because healing isn’t linear. I know that Evan didn’t talk about his pain because he didn’t want to burden others. I find myself wondering if he felt alone and know that this is a question I will never get the answer to. Part of accepting that someone is gone is accepting that there will be things we do not know. I do know that my deep love and admiration for my brother were not secrets to him or anyone else.   

Sometimes, I still talk to him; I don’t know if he can hear me, but I like to imagine that he can. I tell him that I miss him. I tell him that I need one of his big hugs that will wrap me up in the feeling of being known. I tell him that, some days, I am happy and I wonder if that’s okay. I tell him that I’m not mad at him—I’m mad at the sweet escape of addiction and the harsh world that looks at us with judgment and tells us who we need to be. I tell him that I’ve been in recovery for three and a half years, and that every time I accomplish something that I thought was impossible, he’s with me. 

Though Evan is no longer here, I feel him all the time; when that happens, I stop what I’m doing and take a long, deep breath. The future without him stretches ahead and if I look too far in that direction, I am afraid I might get lost and exist in the space between until someone reaches out their hand to pull me back from the edge. Sometimes, I hang out on that edge and consider it a gift to see the chasm and not want to fall in anymore.  I talk about Evan as much as possible; not because I am afraid that I will forget him, but because others will experience him through me now—and I will not deny anyone that gift.