Today I lost my brother Michael.  My children saw me cry in pain for the first time. 

This will be the second time in my life where my parents have had to bury a child.  Second time in my life where I have had to bury a brother.  The second time my sister has had to do the same.  Jimmy, 26 years ago.  Michael, we will bury sometime in the next few days. 

A whole form of communication in my life died today.  The only other person who could finish sentences, stories and punch lines to things that the two of us experienced.  Gone. The only other person that could remember the same stories, just as I remembered them, about my childhood and my little brother.  Gone. Dead.  I could tell people the stories, but there was only one other person in this world that could remember them, as a brother would, and he is dead.  Frankly, they wouldn't translate well to those who didn't live it.  Like how Michael  would selflessly change into a different person for the entire day, never straying from character, just so Jimmy would have a friend to play with.  

My beautiful, flawed, but oh so perfect brother Michael.  Dead set on making an impression on the room.  My sex ed teacher.  My partner in crime.  The reason I have a scar on my chin.  People who would think I am the funny one or the talented one or the handsome one...never met you.  By far, in so many ways, you will always be the superior brother.  

My niece lost her father today.  He loved that girl more than anything or anyone in this world.  His mark on the world.  My last direct connection to my brother.   I, in some ways, gained a daughter.  I have to make sure that she, like my kids, has every opportunity in this world.  That poor little girl.  Her 6th birthday is next month.   My children lost their Uncle Michael.  

I am hurt.  I am relieved. 

Every time I think about my mother and what she did for him and how much she loved him, my entire body hurts.  My poor mother.  My father.  The rock of the family.  He will be strong for my mother. Once she gets her bearings, my dad will most likely have his moment to break.  He will do it alone or perhaps just in front of my mother.  

Growing up, people always asked which kid I was in the order.   Before my little brother passed, I used to say I was the middle son.  My sister is the oldest, but I was still the middle son.  After Jimmy passed, just so I wouldn't have to explain his death, I told people that I was the youngest.  Hurts every time I have said it.  Today, I am the last son. The only son.  The oldest and the youngest  son. This too will hurt when people ask.  Yes, I have a sister that I adore, but as far as Murphy men are concerned, I am the last of my parents sons.  

What prompted me to start writing?  No clue.  I can't sit here and cry all night.  My emotions haven't settled down enough for me to fall asleep.  I am still shaking.   I already told the first group of people that would care to know about his passing.  Mostly family, my close friends and his old girlfriends.  Condolences will roll in.  People will try to relate, but they can't.  You are trying to find common ground and saying the phrases you think you should say just come out.  It's ok.  

My brother Michael was a great writer.  He really was.  His brain was a beautiful thing.  Only to be matched by his good looks and charm.  He marched to the beat of his own drum and seemed hell bent on never making things easy on himself.  

When we were kids, after he moved away to Chicago, he would critique my letters to him.  He started every letter by reminding me of all my punctuation and spelling mistakes.  He taught me a lot of bad things as a kid, so he had to balance them out with some good stuff I guess!  My brother was a grammar Nazi.  My brother writes better than me.  

Do I use the past tense yet?  Screw it.  

I will try not to beat myself up about not picking up the phone every time he called.  My brother lacked the ability to tell a story in less than 20 minutes and God forbid you interrupt him-because he was known to start again from the top.  Where most stories didn't need every detail; my brother would tell you a story as if he had written a script and was reading you the lines as well as setting for every scene.  Acting out the lines of each character and altering his voice just enough to where you could follow along.  Most people needed a stage, a budget and camera crew to pull this off.  Michael could do it all on the phone.  He had a beautiful mind, but just lacked brevity.  Because of this, he made it hard to answer the phone-knowing you only had 5 min to talk.  Out of respect to his story telling abilities, sometimes it was better not to answer than to cut him off midway.  He called at 7am on Sunday to wish me a Happy St. Patrick's day....I didn't answer.  He left a message with his daughter.  A message that I wish I hadn't deleted.  I still have his text messages.  They will have to do.  

Michael Michael motorcycle. My last connection to brotherhood.  Passed away too soon.  I will think of you everyday.  I will see pictures, hear songs, remember a joke, etc.  now that you are gone, it seems like there is more of "you" around me than I ever knew.  You were flawed and troubled, yet beautiful both inside and out.  Long winded and Irish in every God damn way.  I will never love anyone like I did you or curse anyone like I did you.  I would give anything to get hugged by you or punched by you just one last time.  

I love you Michael.  You are at peace and that brings me great comfort.  Hug Jimmy for me.  I promise you, your daughter will never need for anything in this world.  

Rest in peace.  Till we meet again.  

Patty.