The summer before I started first grade, my first clear memory of my oldest brother Calvin was watching him leave for the Navy. My mother cried; my father beamed with pride. It was the era of the Vietnam War, though Calvin never went to Vietnam and instead served in the Mediterranean. I became the lucky recipient of dolls from the countries he visited. His leaving marked the beginning of a quiet admiration I carried for him all my life.

“All conditioned things are impermanent—when one sees this with wisdom, one turns away from suffering.” — Dhammapada, verse 277

Calvin gave me experiences I’ll never forget – my first motorcycle ride, taking me to my first concert, to see Steve Martin live, and into the laughter of shared adventures of the disco era. My college friends loved him for his warmth and generosity – he always picked up the bill when we went out. They knew that time with him meant good company, free drinks and food, and a generous heart.

He had quirks that made us smile—standing in his underwear while Mom hemmed his pants, certain she’d finish faster that way. He was that at ease, that sure of his place in the family.

He loved deeply, especially his stepdaughters and the grandchildren they brought into his life. As guardian to three of the grandchildren, he cared for them until just weeks before he passed. Perhaps he sensed the end and didn’t want them to see it. He told them to stay with their mother “until school starts,” hoping to have the air conditioner fixed for their return. Even then, his thoughts were for their comfort.

After his death, I walked through his home and saw pieces of him, orderly tax returns, a habit from our mother including the habit of never throwing any of them out. You don’t need to keep a lifetime of tax returns. But the sketchbooks once filled with his beautiful pencil drawings were gone. The guns, mostly our father’s, were neglected. The house was in disrepair, and the estate paperwork unfinished. Yet what remained most vividly was not the state of his possessions, but the memories of the man he was.

I remember the striking young man with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and a strong frame. I grieve that his wife had moved out last year and that he died alone. My heart aches for his grandchildren, who lost both their home and the one person who loved them without condition. When they came for school clothes and supplies he had already set aside, I wished I could give them the security and love he gave so freely. I wish I could fix the house for them and give them the keys. I walked through my parents’ home one last time, cherished the sight of my mother’s china, and locked the door behind me. It was a sad goodbye to my parents’ home and my last brother.

I wish I had called him one more time.

Rest well, Calvin. I carry your memory with love.

Cicadas still sing
Death on a hot summer night
No end—not no love