JENN McKINLAY: For those of us who have suffered tremendous loss, the anniversary of "the day" of is met with dread, sadness, surprise (that years have passed), and a whole host of other emotions too numerous to mention.
For me, I start to get sad in the beginning of May--my toughest month--and it ratchets up as "the day" draws near. On the anniversary I usually hole up in my house to mourn my person and then I try to pull out of the emotional tailspin by the end of the month, knowing that my person would expect no less of me.
This year is a particularly poignant one as it's the fifth anniversary of my greatest loss -- May 21, 2020.
Tangentially, because of my occupation, people often ask me, "What's the best thing you've ever written?"
Well, here it is. The eulogy I wrote in the middle of the night a week after my brother passed away unexpectedly:
My brother was 6’6’ and he wore size 13 shoes. He had a crooked smile, a mischievous twinkle in his blue-green eyes, and he walked with a long-legged lope with his head tipped to the side as if listening to music only he could hear. His large calloused hands helped build the Boston skyline but could also tenderly cradle a baby, both were safe in his care. Despite, the amount of space he took up or maybe because of it, he went through life quietly and gently, trying not to do any harm.
That is the one thing people tell me over and over and over again. My brother was a good man, who never had a bad word to say about anyone. Not ever. Humanity in general, sure, but individuals - no. He saw people. He observed their struggles, their pain, and he hurt for them, whether it was a cashier at the local quick mart or a person on the news on the other side of the world. It didn’t matter. He treated everyone he met with kindness and understanding. He knew life was hard. He knew that privilege and advantages were not fairly distributed in this world. He tried to help those who had less and those who struggled in any way he could even if it was just to see them, really see them, and treat them with politeness and respect for the moments their world intersected with his.
He had a wicked sense of humor that he delivered in quick one liners that would make you laugh so hard you’d cramp. I remember being together in the hospital for one emergency or another, and I tried to lighten the mood by saying, “Hey, quality time with the fam.” He looked at me in that “are you goofy?” way he had and, in his thick Massachusetts accent, said, “More like doin’ time.”
A magnet for children and animals, he was their chosen one and no matter where he went, the cat sat in his lap, the dog trotted beside him, and the child demanded to be picked up. I believe they knew instinctively that he was a protector. They were right.
He met his wife, the love of his life in college. From that very first day, which he described to me at the time as “getting shot in the butt by Cupid’s arrow”, Natalia Fontes was the love of his life. During our last phone call, he said, “She’s given me my thirty best years. Going to the Berkshires to celebrate. It’s a big deal. Thirty years.” They would have been married for 30 years on Sept 1st. He was a lucky man to have the love of such an amazing woman and he knew it.
We also talked about his sons, Phoenix and Austin, on that phone call. My brother was worried about the world his sons were trying to navigate in the midst of a pandemic with coming economic insecurity and so much anger dividing the country. We tried to convince ourselves that it would be okay. It won’t be okay for me, without him, but I believe in his sons and their generation. I believe they’ll do him proud because he was the sort of man you wanted to make proud.
When I arrived to grieve with my family, I recounted the phone call I received on the day Phoenix was born (July 4th - this is important to know to understand the message). He said, “Jenn, our little firecracker has arrived. (sob) I knew I would love him (sob) but I didn’t know I would be in love with him. (sob)” I kept that message for years. Some time passed (two years) and I received another call. This was a second baby so one would think my brother would have contained himself. One would be wrong. He said, “Jenn, Austin has arrived and he’s beautiful. (sob). Now we’re a family. (sob). We were just waiting for him. (sob).” I saved that message, too, for many years.
He was a devoted son and shared a special bond with our mother, Sue, caring for her when she was sick and giving her his strength to lean upon whenever she needed it. They were the best of friends and talked just about every day about birds and plants and all the wonders of the natural world they both loved so well. They also discussed their teams - the Bruins, the Red Sox, the Patriots, and the Celtics as he got her to be as big a fan as he was. Then, of course, there was the weather. These New Englanders do love their weather. He frequently called to tell me the weather where I live. Yes, I'm in Arizona. It's either hot or hotter but he could always tell me exactly how hot.
He married into a crazy (in the best possible way) family. That is a direct quote from his sister-in-law, Laura, and as the oldest of Danny, Celeste, Joe and Natalia, she should know. The Fontes siblings and their wonderful mother, Maria, opened their arms to Jon and he celebrated their weddings, delighted in the nieces and nephews as they arrived, mourned their losses, and loved them as fiercely as they loved him. With his enormous heart, he welcomed my husband, Chris, and our sons into his world, loving them so much that when I called him to complain about my people, he always took their sides. Very annoying.
It is well known, that my brother and I were exceptionally close. While he is Jon to most of the world, he has always been Jed (his nickname) to me. Eleven months apart, we were Irish twins, and from the time my newborn eyes clapped onto him, he was my person. Because we were always together, our names were even blended into one JednJenny. We ran wild as children, always on the go, we loved to be outdoors, climbing trees, ice skating, bike riding, skateboarding, fishing - of course, it made him crazy that I always caught the bass while he suffered with the sunfish - still, our shenanigans were legendary, and he saved my life more times than I can count.
As we grew up and our lives put states and time zones between us, he would often say, "No matter how many miles or hours separate us, we are always connected by an invisible cord that can never ever be broken." When he first died, I felt as if he had cut the cord and had left me, but now, now I know, that he was right. The bond we shared, the same one he shared with all those he loved, can never be broken. The cord is still there, I just don't know where the other end is right now, but I will. Someday, I will.
Was Jon a perfect man? No. But he was perfect for all of us who loved him. Godspeed, my brother. I'll see you on the other side where the beer is cold, the rock and roll is playing, your team always wins the championship, and you actually manage to catch the big one.
Thank you, Reds and Readers, for letting me share. In the comments please leave a name or story of someone you've loved and lost. The one thing I discovered after losing my brother was that sharing my grief and hearing about others' losses helped as I didn't feel so alone in my sadness.
