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Robin lost her brother JOhn when she was 31, his motorcycle AND BODY WERE FOUND AT THE SHORE, SHE STILL DOESN'T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED.

Dear John,

I write you letters all the time. In my head I do. And I wrote you that one on Japanese paper with samurai in bold colors and tossed it in the ocean where you are now, and in some senses, always were even when you were alive. And now, I’m writing you another one, and it will be preserved in a different way, on my friend, Marisa’s website. She gets it, her mom ripped away suddenly, violently much like you were. I know you’d like her — as you did nearly everyone — and she’d like you. You’d hug her in that way of yours — unreserved, loving, connected, and unafraid of bodies. You’d hug her just long enough to fill some sort of loneliness, grief, need that you sensed in her. Then, you’d turn to whoever else was in the room, and take them in as you did, embracing, witnessing, appreciating. I wish you were still here in the form I understand to do that still.

It has been almost nine years, can you believe it? Say “hi” to Steph for me. Isn’t it odd, the two of you there, together? You, the “older, wiser” one on the other side? 20 was damn young, but in an odd way, you seemed more ready than the rest of us eight kids. Still, it would have been nice if you could have done things the “normal” way. You know, just this once.

It was devastating enough to have you die — the youngest, the lightest, the warmest, the one we all looked out for — and then we had to deal with the mess of not knowing what happened. Your motorcycle. The chain. Your body washing ashore, yet you hadn’t drowned. Losing you sent us headlong into our own sorts of deaths, and arguing as to what exactly happened broke us into splinters of even greater grief. I don’t blame you though. While it was one of the few times I wished you weren’t such an adventuring, life-loving hedonist, I know it is also what made me one iota okay with you dying at 20. I wished for so much more in your life — great love, kids, college graduation, travel, the height and breadth of an adult life experience — but at least what life you lived you did so with gusto and no reservations.

For months right after your death, I’d dream of you, your body where the shore broke at Topanga, head bleeding into the blue-black water, the moon above us, and you cradled in my arms like when you were a baby. I couldn't bear the thought of you dying alone, so I would create this imaginary scene over and over, and in between, I’d stand with my fingers on the cold glass of our balcony door, staring into the night and calling out to you telepathically. I couldn’t quite figure out where you had gone.

I spent months, if not years, just simply wishing I could view you alive and partaking in life as we do in this form. You got so little of it in years, all I wanted was to see your head, your eyes, your smile, your body taking this experience and beauty in. I used to bargain and say — “I ask for nothing for me, Life, just for him. I’ll forgo the laughs, and a last hug, and hearing his voice, just to see him still here. Take my right arm. If only I can know he is still alive.”

And there was a time when I’d see you everywhere, slipping through the corner of my eye, a tall, broad-shouldered boy-man on a skateboard. Always your back to me, joyous and whisking out of sight. I’d have fleeting moments of thinking maybe you’re like Elvis, and still out there. Maybe it was a mistake. Because we never had any warning with you. You were just gone. We never saw your body. The coroner wouldn’t let us after a week in the Pacific. You had to have your fingerprints taken, even though your wallet with your ID, Red Cross volunteer cards, and your Eagle Scout card were in your jeans’ pocket.

I yearn for you to hang out with my kids, Tristan and Rose. I know they would love you and you’d fill the space with comfort, acceptance and congeniality. It was a sweet salve to see your presence in their lives as Tristan’s imaginary friend, and uncanny when at three he told me stories he had never heard from me about your injuries and falls and adventures, so close to the exact truth it took my breath away. It was then that I stopped seeing you dashing away on skateboards and realized you’re here. Every where. You’re not an unmet stranger to my kids, but a warm presence in their hearts and a legacy running through their veins. You’re Tristan’s sensitive, gentleness, and Rose’s alert, observant psyche. You’re their toes on a fence ledge, and the frolic through sprinklers, the mischief in stolen chocolate, and the glee of skipping along beach foam.

Still, I miss your corny, immature jokes, your hee-haw laugh, your beautiful hands, your fuzzy hair, your small, but straight, white teeth, your broad shouldered, tall beauty that was such a surprise and so deserved after an adolescence of being pudgy, fat, sloppy and awkward. It was right before you died when you became statuesque, long-limbed, agile, fearless, and GQ. Everyone was stunned. But, the fat kid knowledge remained, and you were humble, loving, and open. You always remembered the downtrodden. And then, you died.

So, here we are nine years later. Sometimes I think you know it all, so why give an update? Other times, I think you are here all around us as matter of the universe, as an egret on the shore, as stardust in my nose, a wisp in my hair, so there’s no knowing in a cognitive sense. And what can be told to you in this ether consciousness? Sometimes I think you’re in a heaven of sorts, on a different plane, in the next life, with Stephanie. And you do know what’s happened — my marriage, the births of your nieces and nephews, Stephanie’s cancer and death last year, M cutting us off from Steph’s kids, of Jim and Ellen and Mary and Tom and Catherine and Karen. But then, I think you know it and that you knew it even then, in the way that our intuition works but we ignore until death, until being shaken utterly. Because, we had it coming, didn't we? The tough, beautiful, heart-wrenching, astounding, hard life we seemed destined for. The stuff that makes it joyously breathtaking and gut-wrenchingly sad all at the same time. It was there even then. Before you died.

Thank you for showing me a different kind of masculinity — one that was real, multifaceted and connected. One that was human before it was male. Thank you for seeing me, taking the time to sit with me, to be still in our company, to accept me without judgement or complaint, especially when I was absorbed in my 20-something life and in people who cared less for me than you did, and when you were struggling silently in yours.

Thank you for shouldering the stories of eight siblings before you. You didn’t have to do that, John, but it was a wonderful love you gave that is not lost on me, especially now. I don’t think you’d have had it any other way, and in a family with nine kids, we all had our burdens, our misunderstandings, and I know that we took them on, asked or not. I hope there was a release in dying and you can be the first now, instead of the last, with all of its differences and sameness.

Even now, I refuse to say I have just two brothers. No, I have three brothers, even with you there. And I have five sisters, even with Steph there. Though I did wish that you were still here when Steph was sick. When we came together, at her side, there was an immense feeling of love and togetherness, but always a feeling that something was missing. It was not complete or whole without you. And then, not long before she died, I realized I was wrong.

A few months before she collapsed in a movie theater, Steph, Karen and I were at Cheesecake Factory. Steph ate a kale salad, my cream scarf I loaned her a halo beneath her chemo-hair-covered head, and she told us about speaking with you through a psychic. She was mesmerized. Your tone and words were authentically you, your stance you, your message comforting and spot-on. After many years of searching the ends of the earth for you and what happened — how you died — you laughed and said it didn’t matter. The details didn’t matter. But, we were all correct. It was a bit of it all — an accident, on purpose, assault. She was beaming peace and joy when she told us. It was okay. You were okay. That chapter had closed and she was ready.

If you were here and I could tell you anything, I’d say, “Take care of yourself, John. You are worthy. You are loved. It’s not your responsibility to take it all on, to care for others at your own expense.” Oddly, I’d tell Steph exactly the same thing.

Because of you and her, I’ve changed. I’m more okay with death, which is really just distilled fear, isn’t it? I’m okay with feeling alone, with being different. And, like you two, I’ve recognized how sensitive I am, how much I care, and that I didn’t know how to be okay with myself if I didn’t give to others constantly. I couldn’t forgive myself for being what I thought was selfish in doing otherwise. I was terrible at setting boundaries. In your passing, I realized that I cannot use serving others as a way to fill shame’s hole. I’ve learned that it is as important to love myself as it is to love others. Thank you for that lesson.

Your death was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. And you know what I’ve been through. A bit of me died when you did. But, as with all life deaths — all the ones we go through — a new me emerged, one that vowed to make your passing a chance for growth. I’m happy even in the midst of grief now. Steph felt a comfort in following your path when she died, and in losing you, I knew how to walk with her. Perhaps death is the greatest of all rebirths.

When I think of you now, I like to think that you’re on a cloud with your Alva skateboard in hand, nodding your head, and saying, “Yeah, Rob. You got it. See? It isn’t so scary after all. I’m fine. You’re fine.” And then, you’d drop into a moon pool and do a righteous edge grab, head crooked up to the sky.

I love you. Always.

Rob

Robin Hanson lives in Southern California with her husband and six-year-old twins. She co-founded "The Missing Peace: Self-Discovery Through Storytelling" where she helps folks tell their personal stories in workshops, salons, retreats & more - www.TheMissingPeace.com