Two years. 730 days.

That is how long my brother Steve has been gone. Gone. Not here. Still present. Not fully gone.

I still remember that day with a crystalline clarity I kind of wish would fade. Steve had been in the hospital for a little over two days at that point.

Sitting at the Shedd Aquarium with my sister and Oliver watching the dolphin show. Booking a ticket back to Maine at Liz’s encouragement so Mom and Dad wouldn’t be alone.

At the Field Museum. Walking through the Sue/T-Rex exhibit with Oliver. Text message. Steve is gone. Upper level of Field Museum, calling funeral home. In case you are wondering, cell service is not great inside that behemoth of a building.

That day is set in stone for me. Immovable in its own way.

But what followed, what follows, is this evolving mix of memories and presence and healing and holes. Steve had this laugh that I can still hear like he is next to me. It was beautiful and full of life. It lives still. Somehow. In ways I still cannot fully apprehend.

He was one of the most intelligent, gentle, curious humans I have ever known. He loved his people (especially the small humans!) with a generous, extravagant love. I so wish he could see them now, the not so small humans they are becoming.

I miss my brother. I feel his presence – even if I don’t know how to explain it – in so many cracks even still.

And yet.

I find myself living in spaces where the norm is often to choose business over the humans, to choose efficiency over the messy, beautiful reality of relationships. To choose individual security and freedom over the dignity and thriving of another. To choose one’s own comfort and preference over genuine connection and community.

And yet.

I long for the authentic, extravagant love and curiosity Steve embodied. I long to live it. To give it generously, wisely, freely, whole-heartedly. I long for the joy that filled his face and exploded when he laughed. For me. For us.

Two years. 730 days. Today. Life is too short. Too dear. I do not want to waste a single moment.