Tomorrow is my late brother John’s birthday—the Ides of March. The flash memoir piece below is something I wrote a while back, but it feels fitting to repost it now.

My oldest brother was a very good friend of mine. He had a wicked sense of humor and a way of saying precisely what I needed to hear on subjects that others would have skirted around. He was also a world traveler, fluent in three languages, and arranged work for me and my then-boyfriend Nick in Milan, where we both taught English at The British School. John owned an affiliate of The British School in a small town outside of Milan and was an ex-pat in Italy for ten years before returning to the US.

I have John to thank for arranging a whole year of employment in Italy when I was twenty-two. What a wonderful gift to give a little sister.

Could That Be My Brother?

I was walking the other day in downtown Los Angeles when I saw him – a man in his mid-forties, slight of build, with a square jaw and dark eyes. My heart jumped in my chest, John! I wanted to shout out but did not. My brother, you see, died back in 1991, and this couldn’t be him. Or could it?

The man disappeared down the stairs to the subway, and I followed since that was also my destination. What if? I found myself asking, what if John didn’t really die and he’s been alive and well all of these years? I knew with one part of my brain that this was crazy. My brother Jim had been there with John when he died of AIDS, and he had watched as the dark-suited attendants from the Neptune Society had come in the early evening to carry his body off for cremation. Jim had told us all the details: how ill-fitting the suits were of the two men, who were tall and thin like two Ichabod Cranes; how their faces were deathly pale as if they were dead and simply picking up one more recruit. But still, I never saw my brother John dead; I never saw his body with its spirit absent. What if….what if there had been some mistake?

I hurried down the staircase to the subway, trying to keep the man in my view. I was relieved to see that he was going on the same train as I was, and I made a point of stepping in the same car to get a better look. He was facing away from me on the train, and I noted how similar he was to John in terms of build. His hair was also brown, with a bald spot on the top. My throat closed at the possibility that he would turn and there would be my brother – the one whose chuckle I missed so much, whose dark eyes crinkled when he was amused. I knew how irrational these thoughts were, and I also knew that this was not my brother; it was the hope that caught me off guard. The desire to again be in the presence of this loved one I had not seen in years.

The man turned and glanced at me, no doubt feeling my stare boring into the back of his head. He did look remarkably like John – even his nose had a slight crook in it, as John’s did from breaking it when he was young. But, of course, he was not my brother. He was a stranger who bore some resemblance to him and shared a similar fashion sense. Still, I smiled at him, and he smiled back just as the door opened and he stepped out of the subway car.

I felt a mixture of sadness and happiness. It was sweet that I still felt such ardent love for my brother, and it was also sad that I missed him.

And the man—who knows? Maybe I reminded him of a sister or a friend he had lost. His smile seemed familiar and knowing.