i am 4 years old and you are 14. it is june and the nights of our new northern california home are warm and lovely.

i follow you outside to where you have set up the chaise lounge chairs. one for you and one for me. i am amazed at the brown flannel sleeping bags that lay before us in anticipation. it is my first introduction to the concept, and i marvel at the pictures inside the sack, of hunting dogs and ducks flying away. you tuck me in and then get in your own. our mother interrupts the moment to coat us in "OFF" mosquito repellent, and despite my protestations that it smells toxic, she thoroughly covers each arm and my face. i am astounded at all the things adults know...about how to keep away mosquitos, sleeping bags, the multiple uses of lawn chairs.

mom turns all the lights out in the house and you lay beside me and tell me that now we get to stargaze. i ask you how to do it, and you tell me to just look up at the sky, that maybe i'll see a shooting star. you teach me the poem for wishes and show me the big dipper. i am soon asleep.

i wake in the middle of the night, disoriented, but quickly soothed by the sound of your snoring. it is so comforting, and the feeling is familiar. a combination of joy and gratitude, and a sense of being very, very lucky.


i am 35 years old and you are 45. it is june in colorado where you now live, and the sky outside is stormy and there is thunder in the distance. you are unconscious and an oxygen machine hums next to you. i am laying beside your bed on a couch, taking in your jaundiced skin, your bloated stomach, your parched lips.

soon you are snoring, and i am completely transported back to our childhood. i have not heard this sound in 28 years, but i instantly realize that it is a sound i constantly ache to hear. the loneliness that rides on my back is brushed away, the tenorous sound of your breathing stitching back together the wide wounds, the sorrow that took the place of your presence when you left home.

the next day...

i am 4 years old and you are 14. it is june and the nights of our new northern california home are warm and lovely.

i follow you outside to where you have set up the chaise lounge chairs. one for you and one for me. i am amazed at the brown flannel sleeping bags that lay before us in anticipation. it is my first introduction to the concept, and i marvel at the pictures inside the sack, of hunting dogs and ducks flying away. you tuck me in and then get in your own. our mother interrupts the moment to coat us in "OFF" mosquito repellent, and despite my protestations that it smells toxic, she thoroughly covers each arm and my face. i am astounded at all the things adults know...about how to keep away mosquitos, sleeping bags, the multiple uses of lawn chairs.

mom turns all the lights out in the house and you lay beside me and tell me that now we get to stargaze. i ask you how to do it, and you tell me to just look up at the sky, that maybe i'll see a shooting star. you teach me the poem for wishes and show me the big dipper. i am soon asleep.

i wake in the middle of the night, disoriented, but quickly soothed by the sound of your snoring. it is so comforting, and the feeling is familiar. a combination of joy and gratitude, and a sense of being very, very lucky.


i am 35 years old and you are 45. it is june in colorado where you now live, and the sky outside is stormy and there is thunder in the distance. you are unconscious and an oxygen machine hums next to you. i am laying beside your bed on a couch, taking in your jaundiced skin, your bloated stomach, your parched lips.

soon you are snoring, and i am completely transported back to our childhood. i have not heard this sound in 28 years, but i instantly realize that it is a sound i constantly ache to hear. the loneliness that rides on my back is brushed away, the tenorous sound of your breathing stitching back together the wide wounds, the sorrow that took the place of your presence when you left home.

the next day it is time to say goodbye. you have awakened for a moment and tell mom that you want to kiss me. i lean down for the last of all good nights. this is not the moment for settling the score, it is for creating a bridge between our childhood and our present. the simplest and most honest thing i can tell you is that you are the best brother i ever could have asked for. your heart blooms wide open and we both cry. it is a totally fucked up situation, but i have to walk out the door knowing i will never see you again. i don't know how to do it, but i just do, amidst your soft protests for us not to go.

mixed in among the broken heart of grief, one thing remains true. a combination of joy and gratitude, and a sense of being very, very lucky. i love you matthew. thank you for being my wonderful brother.

RIP Matthew Good, June 9 2008