“Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.”
Cicero, 80 B.C.
On this Memorial Day weekend we remember those who served our country and honor their sacrifices with moments of silence, prayers, flags, and ceremonies. We remember.
Memorial Day also brings personal memories for our family. On this Memorial Day, May 30, 2016, I remember my brother, John. He often joked that had we met in high school, we probably would have dated, as we had so much in common. We’d look at each other and laugh, thinking this scenario sounded too much like a Hollywood script. But we didn’t meet in high school or even know of each other’s existence until we were in our mid-fifties.
He grew up thinking he was a firstborn child, until September 28, 2004, when he came home from work and discovered he had an older sister. That day I spoke with my birth family for the first time. We both learned that I was seventeen months older than he and given up at birth because our parents were not married. When John was on the way, they quickly tied the knot. By then I was living with a family only five miles away with my adoption pending. My birth family adhered to omerta, the Italian code of silence, and my birth was known only to a few.
Fast forward fifty-five years to the day that I found my birth family, and they agreed to meet me. Two weeks later I flew to New Jersey alone, unsure of what I would find.
John and I discovered we were like Irish twins. We both loved music, books, movies, good food, dogs, travel, and most of all, our families. Our favorite movie was Moonstruck. We each had photographic memories and loved trivia. We had chosen similar professions: teaching and healthcare. We even frequented the same places during our childhoods—the donut truck on Morris Avenue and the July Fourth fireworks display in Kenilworth. It’s a wonder we never met.
For nearly six years John and I had a close relationship. We talked often, laughed a lot, and felt elated that we were related.
The evening of May 30, 2010, while watching the film The Blindside, I received a phone call from John’s son Bob. Surprised, I said, “Hi, Bob. How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” he replied. “My father died today.”
I could not speak or catch my breath as the tears began to fall.
Bob continued, “My father had a massive heart attack this afternoon. We’re all in shock.”
Our entire family was blindsided by his sudden death.
This Memorial Day I remember John and what a gift he was to all. We remember—and always will.