For My Brother Sam, Who Died.

I just went out for ice cream with Keats and Emily. “My brother died,” I said as we walked up to the counter. “We’re here to eat so much ice cream we can’t feel.” I thought Sam might have thought that was funny, or most likely, further proof his older sister has no filter. One of the last things he acted out to me was that I shoot a lot of noise out of both my mouth and my butt.

(What I hadn’t said was that my other brother Jyre was in hospice and I’d emotionally walked off a cliff and needed some ice cream to give my fume-driven brain some glucose and my bell-struck body some weight.)

(Oh, to be with my daughter and Emily and our dogs during this time! )

It was a relief to make a joke about his death because I’d been crying or sobbing or walking around in a torpor or passed out on Klonopin ever since my sister-in-law called me from Puerto Rico to say Sam had had a stroke while snorkeling.

Sam has two fathers—our father (who art in heaven) and his birth father. One is named Frank and the other is named Earnest. I love that for Sam.

When he came to us, his name was Terry.

What a strange thing it is for adoptive parents to change their child’s name .

I can’t tell you how much I love Sam because you can’t measure infinity. I have written many times about the day he came to us as a two year old, but it was one of the best days of my life. I loved him on sight. He was mine; he was ours. My love for Sam helps me understand how adoptive parents might feel about their kids. Sam was and is my brother. Full stop.

I’m in shock still, and riding the sugar high of the ice cream, so I can sound like I’m okay, but I have to tell you that I’m not. Yesterday, as I drove from Santa Rosa to Santa Cruz to be with my daughter, I kept whispering to Sam, “It’s okay. You can come back into your body if you want. It’s okay. You’ll be a miracle. You already were a miracle. Just know there’s still time. Know we love you. Know we want you back. You can be the guy who died but who came back a day later. But also know if you can’t come back, we’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

I felt like I had to keep telling him we’d be okay because he spent his life taking care of his family and his friends. I didn’t want his spirit worrying any more than it probably already was. Or maybe in spirit life you get to let go off worry and live in the knowing of fundamental okay-ness. Sam was the go-to guy for so so so so many people. At work. At the farm. In his extensive friend group. He was the guy. He could fix anything. He could build anything. He did not have a mean bone in his body, but he did have a lot of muscle.

I want to tell you about Sam’s forearms. In February, by what now feels like grace, I was living close to Sam and Ash’s farm. He was having pain in his elbow, so I put on my massage therapist hat and got to work.

It was like working on a…on a…on a…

That guy was ripped and dense with what I would call determination, hard work, and plain old labor. I think I used the words Jesus and holy shit a bunch of times. Jesus, Sam, I think I said. No wonder your elbow hurts. I went to work on his shoulder. Same situation. The guy was made of barely-pliable stone. Once, years ago, he was chain sawing a tree or something and the chainsaw slipped and cut his leg so he just tied something around his leg and kept working. There are a lot of Sam stories like this one. In many ways, it’s a miracle he lived as long as he did. But I hate that sentence. It’s a miracle he existed at all, is more like it. I’ve never met anyone like him—so tough and so very soft.

One time, when we were young and I was a runner, he did laps with me on the track. I wore sneakers and he wore work boots. He kept pace, and then, when we were done and walking away from the track, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and had a smoke.

Sam was gentle. Sam was funny. Sam was kind. Sam was dedicated. Sam was loving. Sam was smart. Sam was clever. Sam was handsome. Sam was tender-hearted.

The second-to-last night I saw him, I was with Sam and Ash and their kids Phinny and Bella, and I asked Sam to tell them my favorite story about the keg and the cop. Sam is more often the one listening than the one talking, so to get him to tell a story feels like a big deal.

The story was that when Sam was in high school, he and his friend Amy went back into the woods during school, I think, to reclaim a keg from the previous night’s party. The keg didn’t fit into the back of Amy’s small car, so Sam kind of hung onto the back and held onto the keg as they drove through town to god knows where. A cop who Sam knew because she also worked at the pharmacy by our house pulled Amy over, and as Amy stopped the car, Sam ran away.

The cop said to Amy, Tell your boyfriend he’s an asshole, and let Amy go with a warning. Amy went to get Sam, I guess, and who cares what the rest of the story is because to watch Sam laugh while talking about the cop saying he was an asshole was the best. I love to see Sam laugh.

I can not believe I won’t see that again. I keep thinking, No. That can’t happen. He has to come back. I reject a life without him. No. No. No. No.

Sam belongs here. With us.

Ashley loves him. His kids love him. His extended family loves him. His friends love him. I’m here mourning with my daughter and her fiancée, and we love him. Life loves Sam because Sam loves life.

Please let us have him back.

Please change your mind.

He’s ours.

I know. I know. My cousin says this is the bargaining stage.

Sam went to Puerto Rico because he needed a break from the Maine winter and because he loved warm, beautiful places (and, as with his wife, people). Thank you for letting him get there. Thank you for creating him. Thank you for letting me love him. Thank you for this deep, deep pain because without him, I would not have it. Thank you for love. Thank you for attachment. Thank you for love. Thank you for love. Thank you for love.

Please let him rest, wave and particle or whatever form or not form he is in. Please let him delight in watching those who love him spend the rest of their lives showing him all the ways he is loved.

We learned love from you, Sam. We learned tenderness and kindness and what it means to be a human.

We will remember you always and forever and miss you completely.

Keep an eye on us. We will be here.