Five Years

Miss You, Matt

My brain hurt like a warehouse; it had no room to spare / I had to cram so many things to store everything in there — David Bowie, “Five Years”

The remarks I delivered from the lectern, beneath the altar, at Matthew’s funeral five years ago:

I met Matt when I was 2.

Two days old. I don’t remember it. But Matt told me about it. He told me a lot of things over the years—too many to list here. Still, I want to give you a glimpse of the bond between us. A bond unbroken. A lifetime of intertwined threads that made us a pair. Brotherhood. Friendship. Us. Magic.

I wrote a poem for Matt some twenty years ago. Don’t worry; I’m not going to bore you by reading it here. It doesn’t even rhyme. And who wants a poem that doesn’t rhyme, right?

The truth is, it’s a lyrical poem, but everything in it would be lost on you, as it recalls a lifetime of memories between us. I’d have to explain all the references and secret code decipherable only to Matt and me.

But I will read the first and last stanzas today because they are the most essential to understand our bond.

It begins:

For you

I hold dear

A kiss at 3 for 1 of 6

Tiny, smooth, innocent lips and a little cold

Embarking south for a highland drive

It is my very first memory of Matt, and it remains the most indelible.

I was three years old. The threshold of the front door to our townhouse separated us. Matt on the outside. And me, inside.

Our mother said, “Kiss your brother goodbye, Eric.”

We leaned toward one another. Our eyes met, and we pushed our lips together. I remember how soft Matt’s lips were. How noticeably small they were. A little cold too. A crisp morning in early September. The rising sun illuminated his left cheek. It was Matt’s first, first day of school.

I didn’t understand why he was leaving without me, alone. But what I’d come to understand was that this was the moment that forged our bond. This was the moment where it all began

What stands out most to me in this photo is how quickly genetics is revealed. Matt inherited our mother’s Hungarian melanin, and I was selected to carry our father’s Scottish skin tones. The result: Matt never suffered a sunburn or a single pimple, whereas I reddened in the summer and fought acne in adolescence.

.

Our connection solidified further in the immediate days after our mother died. He had just begun 5th grade, and I was now a second grader. We were practically inseparable.

I recall a couple of years after when he was 12, and I was 9. He told me he was meeting a new friend he’d made, who lived closer to town. It was a few miles’ walk.

Before he departed, I asked,

“Can I come?”

I could see by his body language that that was not his preference. After all, being 12 is wholly different than being 11. The start of adolescence begs for independence.

He paused for a long beat, looked me in the eyes, and said,

“Sure, c’mon.”

I followed him like a duckling up the gravel driveway and the numerous steps it took to get to his friend’s apartment. I knew fully—even then—the social sacrifice he endured by including his little brother. But I felt the love and empathy displayed by his willingness to put that aside to protect me, and not leave me alone in a sad, clapboard house tucked into the woods.

I was grateful he allowed me to tag along. I listened, watched, and followed.

I adored him, and it was enough to be in his presence rather than not. I reminded him of that gesture of love and kindness over time. I let him know that it was no small thing. Perhaps the most critical decision he could have possibly made at that moment. And it sealed our bond forever. Thank you, Matt. Thank you, brother.

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Here, at the funeral, I broke from my written script to improvise, discuss various bonds, and scan the congregation, identifying specific attendees and sharing tidbits about them related to Matthew.

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The absolute pinnacle of our bond—the point at which it was clear our bond was unbreakable —came by the oddest happenstance.

It was the mid-90s. I woke up to sunshine baking my face through a curtainless window in my Cleveland apartment. It was a Wednesday, and the sky was bluish blue with a few cotton-ball clouds suspended high. I called off work. I didn’t even say that I was sick. I just said that I needed the day.

I drove west to Huntington Beach in Lakewood. I’d only been there once prior. It’s not even that impressive as far as beaches go. It’s small, but it has natural sand instead of rocks like most of Lake Erie’s shores.

I parked and exited my car across from the tiny park that leads to the steps down to the waterline. As I crossed the road, I noticed a man walking directly toward me.

In the exact center of the road, we were eye to eye, smile to smile.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Matt said.

I told him I just decided to take the day off. For no reason, just because.

“Why aren’t you working?,” I asked.

“Same thing. I just decided to take the day off.”

I asked Matt what had brought him to the beach. It was a bit of a drive from his home in Sagamore Hills.

He said he had no idea.

“Well, I don’t need to see the beach,” I told him. “Let’s go do something.”

“Sure, c’mon.”

I don’t remember what we did, but I remember it being a perfect day spent with my brother. I know we talked a lot, as we always did when we were alone together. I remember that we spent a lot of time trying to assess how and why, and what it meant that we landed at the exact coordinates at the exact same time, without planning it.

Matt and I in San Francisco, visiting our mother’s sister, Dorothy. 1991

Two days before Matt died, I was back in New York regrouping from the ICU visits and the collective family heartache. I wandered around the house, unable to focus on anything—lost in the fog. That evening, I had a dream:

Matt and I were throwing stars. They weren’t martial arts throwing stars. No, we were plucking real stars from the night sky and hurling them like the baseballs we did so many times, so many years ago.

One of us said, “Wow, look how far they go.”

All beauty and sensory. Anxiety was non-existent. Was the dream of my creation? Or did Matt send me the dream? Maybe? I don’t know.

I’ve settled on this: I believe Matt invited me to our celestial playground. I believe he was already in transit— partly here, but mostly there, wherever there is. He wanted to paint me a small picture of what might be—when we finally form our ultimate bond.

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It ends:

For you

I hold dear

A white dog near trees in parks

Parks with amusements

The amusement of a tree evergreen in my face

A place called Picksburgh, a word pronounced lingaree

And a solar system so large, I know it is infinite.

For you

I hold dear

My life