Today is my brother Denny’s birthday.  He died 39 years ago–twelve years longer than he lived.  He and I used to fight all the time.  We sat on the same side of the table for meals and made sure the elbow of the other one of us never crossed the crack between the two halves of the kitchen table that divided our seating places.

As my oldest brother, he was the one I sought out in high school on the day I was told our mother had been in a serious accident and was unconscious in the hospital.  A teacher was going to take me to the hospital, and I asked Denny to watch our other three brothers after school until I got home.  That’s the most serious-looking face I ever remember seeing on him.  Maybe he thought the same of me at the time.

We didn’t get along with each other while we were growing up, but we became closer when we left home.  He was stationed in California while Ted and I lived in Washington, DC, so long distance phone calls were tricky with the time difference and having to wait until the cheaper evening rate kicked in.  (Remember those days?)  We wrote regular letters to each other, though.  In fact, Denny wrote letters to several of us in the family within weeks of his death.  Was that meaningful or not?  Of course, we all wondered about it at the time.

Denny and Bev became engaged a few weeks after Ted and I announced our engagement.  Denny was a groomsman in our wedding and Ted was a groomsman in Denny’s wedding.  We had Jeff in February 1972; Denny and Bev had Eric in July.  Then we had Kathy in April 1973, and Denny and Bev had Cheryl the following January.

Today, on your birthday, I want to say I still miss you, Denny.  I have four brothers, but one–you–lives only in my heart.

Love,

Your big sister