My brother Brian died when I was seven months pregnant with my third child. I was already a mom, with another baby on the way, and suddenly I was also a sister without one of her brothers.
Those early days are a blur. Grief has a way of shrinking your world. At some point, you realize this is the way it’s going to be forever, even if denial still sneaks in and tries to convince you otherwise.
What I didn’t think about then was what his death would mean years later. I wasn’t thinking about my children growing up without him.
My oldest was three. I remember sitting him down to tell him, but he was too young to understand what death really meant. You don’t think about how to talk to children about death until it happens, and even then, there’s only so much a three-year-old can comprehend.
Brian never got to meet his niece, but she carries a piece of him in her middle name, Brianne.
Today, my kids know his name and recognize his face from photographs. They’ve heard me tell the same stories about him so many times that some probably feel like their own memories. I know they aren’t, but I still want them to feel like they know their uncle, even if I’m the one introducing them.
Remembering who he was before he died
After someone dies, people rally around you. They call, send messages, and tell stories. They drop by with dinner. Their name is everywhere because everyone is thinking about them.
Eventually, life keeps moving. People stop checking in as often, and their name comes up less. The world gets farther away from the time when they were in it.
It’s reality, though. Life is supposed to keep moving, but there’s a strange tension between moving forward and wanting to reach backward. I don’t want Brian to become someone we only talk about in the context of his death.
What I miss most about my brother is his sense of humor. He was four when I was born and made it clear he did not want a sister. He wanted a dog. A German Shepherd, to be exact.
That’s one of the stories I tell my kids about him. I think it’s funny that before I was even part of his life, he apparently had other plans. Of course, he got a sister instead, and those little stories are what I want my children to know.
When someone dies young, it’s easy for their death to take up too much space. I don’t want Brian’s life reduced to the worst thing that ever happened to our family. He was my brother long before he became the brother I lost.
I don’t want Brian’s life reduced to the worst thing that ever happened to our family. He was my brother long before he became the brother I lost.
Finding ways for my kids to know him
One of my favorite ways to remember Brian started with his old paintbrushes.
Brian was an amazing artist, and after he died, I kept some of his brushes. Every year, on the anniversary of his death, I pull them out and have my kids paint. The tradition has changed through the years. The first year, they painted all over themselves. Eventually, we switched to canvases and let their imaginations take over.
There’s nothing elaborate about it. My mom and I share “Uncle Brian” stories while my kids paint. Some years, the paintings turn out better than others, but that’s not really the point. We spend time together, talk about Brian, and use something that once belonged to him. Something that should still be his.
I don’t want this to become something my kids feel obligated to do every year. I want Brian to be part of our everyday conversations, not just someone we remember because he died. I’m glad I kept his paintbrushes because I love seeing my kids use something that once belonged to him.
I also love that my mom is part of it. She gets to talk about her son, I get to talk about my brother, and my kids get to hear stories about an uncle they never really knew. Sometimes we laugh, and often cry. There isn’t a right way for the afternoon to go, and I don’t want there to be.
Watching my kids grow up without him
When Brian died, my kids were too young to understand what losing my brother meant. Now they’re older, and they are starting to understand relationships differently.
My kids know how siblings can make you laugh one minute and drive you crazy the next. They fight, make up, and find things to laugh about together. Sometimes, their sense of humor reminds me of Brian.
I wish my kids could have experienced his humor firsthand. I wish he’d been here to joke around with them, tease them, and see the people they’re becoming.
Watching my children reminds me what it means to grow up with someone. I hope my kids get to grow old together, keep annoying each other, and tell stories about what it was like growing up in our house. I wish Brian and I had that chance.
Sometimes I think about everything Brian missed. In the early days, I’d catch myself wanting to text or call him about something my kids did. Now I wonder what he’d think of them and what their relationships would have looked like.
The birthdays and holidays are difficult, of course, but it’s often the smaller things that catch me off guard. He never met my daughter. He’ll never watch my son in a swim meet or get to know the people my children have become. Sometimes, the mental load of grief can be overwhelming.
Letting them know him their way
My kids don’t miss Brian as I do. How could they? They don’t have years of memories to look back on. For them, Uncle Brian has always existed in stories and photos.
Sometimes they’ll ask a question about him, and I’ll answer it. Other times, I’ll bring him up because something reminds me of him. Then the conversation moves on because someone’s hungry, one of my kids needs something, or there’s an argument to break up. You know the drill.
Life with three kids doesn’t leave much time to sit around thinking about grief. I don’t expect my children to feel the same sadness I do. I just want them to know they can talk about Brian whenever they want.
They can laugh about how he wanted a dog instead of a sister, look at his artwork, and ask me questions about him. I know they’ll never have the memories I do, but I hope the stories I share give them a sense of who he was.
As my kids get older, I also know our traditions will probably change. There may come a time when they’re too busy to spend an afternoon painting with their mom and grandmother. I hope they’ll still make time for it, but I can’t expect them to hold on to every tradition forever.
For years, I’ve been the one telling the stories, bringing out the photographs, and pulling out his paintbrushes. Someday, I hope they’ll tell those stories without my prompting. Maybe they’ll remember the paintings they made or tell their own children about Uncle Brian.
I like the thought of his name being spoken by people who never met him, simply because he’s part of their family’s story. I don’t know if that will happen, but I hope it does.
I used to think that if I told my kids enough stories and showed them enough photographs, I could somehow make up for the relationship they missed. I know now that I can’t. They’ll never remember Brian the way I do, and there are parts of our childhood that will always belong to just the two of us.
Still, every year, we pull out his paintbrushes. My mom and I tell stories while my kids paint whatever they feel like painting. I can’t give my children the uncle they should have had, but I can keep telling them who he was.
Long before Brian became someone we had to remember, he was someone we got to love. And I want my kids to know that part of him, too.
