I was 13 years old. As one of the pallbearers, I stood at the end of the line, watching the casket sliding from the hearse. Suddenly, I felt weak. Grief rushed through me in a way I hadn’t known before. I turned away, just at the time when I should have been reaching up. My uncle turned and screamed something nasty at me. What exactly, I don’t remember. Only that “do your job” was tagged to the end of it. I didn’t forgive him for years for that, even though it was mostly a reaction out of fear that the casket would fall.
During the visit, it was clear that Brian was fading. He tried to talk to us, but really couldn’t muster the strength to say anything coherently. I remember looking into his eyes, and saying “I miss our talks” and I’m almost sure he tried to say to me “Maybe we’ll have another.”
We never got another chance. He died Thursday.