For my brother George, on his birthday.

I wish George were here. He would be appalled by our current political situation and would be a safe person for me to talk to about all the frustration, worry, and disbelief that have characterized both times Trump has been in power. He would agree with my assessment and be loud and clear with others about his political beliefs, since he was a live-and-let-live person—except when it came to violating human rights. If that were part of the scenario, he would have no qualms about standing up and speaking out.

I can put myself instantly back into conversation with George, whether at his house or mine, when we just sat and chatted until he reached for his guitar and started playing. More often than not, we ended up singing together, which I miss very much today. I knew before I opened my mouth that George “got” me, and his responses always reflected that understanding. “Yes, I know,” and “It’s hard to believe, but it’s true,” acknowledged my perception, understanding, and analysis of whatever situation I was facing. Not that he was an easy touch. If he thought there were things I wasn’t considering, he’d say so. “I understand how you’re feeling, but have you thought about …” Yes, the very essence of a friend: open and receptive while also discerning and capable of gentle confrontation when needed.

Yes, I miss George.

I am lucky to have others in my life who play the role George did, and each is in that same category of trusted friend and confidante. However, that sense of comfort and connection I felt with George, my big brother, just three years older, is irreplaceable. Maybe it’s because he was the very first person I loved with a wide-open heart. There’s never been a little sister who loved her big brother more, I guarantee you. And even during the rough years when alcohol addiction grabbed him by the throat, I never doubted that once sober, he would be right back to my trusted big brother. And when the day came, at age 37, when he finally hit bottom and began the climb back up to light and life, I saw within days that he was still right there—ready to slowly rebuild our relationship and again be my lifelong friend.

George’s head tilted back when he laughed, his eyes twinkled when he teased me, and his hands kneaded my shoulders when he saw I was tense. He remains one of my most trusted people, even though he died 22 years ago of esophageal cancer at the age of 54. All I have to do is visualize him in my mind’s eye, and out he pops—sharp-witted, passion-filled, and fully attentive. What is there not to love?

Happy birthday, brother. Send positive ju-ju down from whatever good place you have found yourself in. We, on this mortal plane, could use a bit of your light, love, and laughter from beyond.

Here I am with my siblings: Leslie, John, Jim, George, Sam, and me. Little brother, Sam, and I are the only ones still alive.