Happy Birthday, Scott

I often wonder why people cite what age someone would be on their birthday if they were still alive. Perhaps it is to image what that hole in their memory might look like.

When a person dies, he is frozen in time. Kurt Cobain will always be 27 years old. His music will never mature. I will never see him any younger than the disheveled kid he was at the moment of his passing.

My brother, Scotts will forever be 32. This September, I turn 38, and the age that separates the two of us will be six years. Next year, seven years will divide us. Ten. Twenty. Each time I gaze over my shoulder, Scott's 32 year old visage will stare back at me through ever-faded memories. Then, a great memory will come to my mind as vivid as the day it was lived only to be followed by the cold wave of grief.

I miss him so much.  Some times, it feels like a balloon that expands in my throat until I fear I might choke. The moment is often invisible until it is upon me. The loss of a brother who lived far away leaves me with final moments that I never knew I should cherish. I grieved then returned to a life that appears indistinguishable from a couple weeks prior.

Last night, I watched the movie A River Runs Through It. The story has always been close to my heart but never more-so than now. Towards the end of the film, the aged father, Reverend Maclean, delivers a sermon that speaks to the death of Paul, the younger brother-

Each one of us here today will, at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question."We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed?" It is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us, but we can still love them. We can love completely, without complete understanding.

This morning, I drove into the Rocky Mountains and went fly fishing. It lifted my spirits. Along the banks of the Cache la Poudre River, I thought of Scott and I thought of the words of Norman Maclean. I gazed at the beauty around me and I found comfort in it.