“Like a shooting star, flying across the sky, so fast, so far, gone much too soon, with no time to say goodbye."
My brother Michael who was named after our grandfather on our late father Frank's side, tragically took his last breath on All Saint’s Day, November 1, 2019. It was nine days before his 61st birthday and a day before our late mother Maria’s birthday. All Saint’s Day is celebrated in honor of all saints of the Catholic Church both famous and obscure, including my brother's namesake St. Michael the Archangel, one of the most revered angels not only in Christianity but Judaism and Islam as well. Michael is of Hebrew origin and means “gift from God.” All Saints Day stems from a belief that there is a powerful spiritual bond between heaven and the living.
Ever since he was a little boy Michael had the smile of an angel. Goodness oozed out of him. He became an altar boy, and later an Eagle scout under our father’s tutelage as his scout leader. He was modest, and never looked for praise. He was never one to boast except in jest, worked hard for the ones he loved the most, and was well regarded by his co-workers and his boss in the construction industry as a team player who took pride in his work. His dreams were seldom spoken and his wants were very few. He loved his children [Michael, Jr., Andrew, Brock, and Alex], his nieces, nephews, and his siblings too. Like all of us he had his ups and downs. Life was not easy at the end. Looking back, I would describe it as "a smile behind a vale of tears.”
With the passage of time I don’t really think of Michael as really gone away, but as having reached his destination—a safe zone filled with love, majesty and grace. Moreover, a place of warmth, and comfort where there is no such thing as time, days or years, where the only thing that passes away are our troubles, burdens, regrets and fears. His spirit has already ascended to his final resting place, at peace for eternity in that heavenly space.
The desire to be remembered lies within our genetic code. It is why we carve our initials in tree trunks, press our hands or feet in cement before it dries, and chalk our names and images on walls, rocks, and caves. We want to leave our mark, to be remembered. By the same token we want to remember those we’ve loved and lost, not only for them but for ourselves, to mend, to heal, to live on, and to never forget. We love you Michael.
Postscript: My fondest memories of Michael will always be the time I spent with him and my brother-in-law Joe in Kenya and Tanzania in 2006 where he was the most relaxed and carefree. It was a trip of a lifetime.
