Vol. 28 No. 2, June 2024, page 23

After living with Parkinson’s Disease for twenty-three years, my brother David died on November 9, 2023. In his final months, he started having trouble staying focused. He participated less in conversations and it became much harder to understand his speech. Eventually, he stopped speaking altogether.

That is the David who finally succumbed to his Parkinson’s. It is not, however, the David I want to remember. The David I choose to remember was full of life with a great sense of humor, a watcher of sports, a music lover, a guitar and banjo player, an avid reader, a lover of travel, a teller of stories about his adventures. He is the David who, after graduating from college in NY, bought a car, learned to drive it, and drove west to Minnesota to pursue a doctorate in sociology, residing there for the remainder of his life. He is the David who, when each of his two sons graduated college, separately took them on a car trip from Minnesota to Alaska.

My most precious memories are of us growing up together in the Bronx. Although I didn’t like it at the time, I now cherish the teasing, the grabbing of the favored seat in the den, the sudden jumping out from the dark living room to scare me as I walked past—even the time he offered me a choice between a dime and a subway token (then worth fifteen cents) and laughed teasingly when I chose the dime. I cherish those memories because they are real. They are part of what family life is all about. And because in their brotherly way, they are full of love.

Losing a sibling is losing a part of oneself. A piece broken off. How can I be in this world without him, for so long a place we shared? I miss our conversations, most recently comparing how our local sports teams were doing, how cold the temperature was getting, how much snow we had—eternally grateful for the cherished memories of the past.