Remembering the Future

"The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you'll never have." - Søren Kierkegaard*

My beautiful baby brother would be, should be, turning 50 today. Having lived these 11+ years without him, I have a hard time imagining him at 50 but, more acutely, it is far too painful to attempt to do so. It's painful to "remember the future" I'd expected, with my brother in it. It's painful to think of who he would be today, where he would be, how much better his life might be than before, how many things he'd have learned, felt, explored, discovered. So I tend to push those thoughts out of my mind - perhaps not the best way to deal with grief, but the way that protects me from the overwhelming sadness that I cannot make room for in my day-to-day life. That overwhelming sadness and grief constantly rests just below the surface, patiently waiting for me to set aside time to let it erupt naturally. All it takes is a thought, a song, a memory - at least once a day, I think of something that only Amir would understand and I ache from not being able to share it with him or ask him about it.

Ever since turning we entered 2026, I have been anticipating and dreading this day - the day Amir would have turned 50, joining me and our sister on this side of middle age where many things fall into place and others finally lose their grip on our attention and their battle for importance. How I wish he'd entered the "fuck it" phase of middle age, having earned the privilege to not care so much about how you're perceived and instead drop the crippling need to please everyone. It's incredibly freeing and my dear brother missed out on it.

I'll admit a big part of my having learned to say "fuck it" comes from having been through so much devastating loss in my 40s. My ever-lingering grief has changed me in every perceivable way and, as a kind of sick benefit to being sad much of the time, I can put aside the things that don't matter in life and truly, sharply, intently focus on the things that do.

Amir was such a gorgeous kid and young man - I just know his aqua eyes would still be as blue and the crows' feet around them would serve as indicators of a busy, active life, one full of thoughts and curiosities and wonderful moments, one filled with ups and downs, big smiles (we hope) and often bigger sighs. Would his hair be showing signs of grey like that of his two sisters? Would he have gained some weight around the middle like so many friends his age? He was always committed to fitness - would he have amped up the strength training like Yael and I have, to try to keep our bones healthy and ward off the seemingly inevitable eventual broken hip?

Where would he live? Would he have abandoned the rainy reality of Portland (which he loved, but maybe didn't serve his depression)? Would he have sought a sunnier spot? Would he be happy in his work? Would he have finished college? Would he be single? Coupled? What pets would he have? What bands would he have tickets to see? He was a frequent insomniac - what issues would keep him up at night now? He had the sharpest sense of humor - what would make him laugh these days? What would he be doing to strip away the stresses and headaches of everyday life? How distressed would he be by the slow demise of our democracy at the hands of incompetent clowns? How overwhelmed by social media and the endless choices of streaming entertainment? How delighted at the soft purr of a kitten, the sound of a new song by a favorite band, the patter of rain on his windows, the smell of our mom's cooking, the taste of a glorious sashimi platter, the unexpected belly laugh in a sharp movie?

There are no answers to these questions other than the ones I write myself. At every family gathering, I will always picture him at the table - where would he sit? What would he be wearing? Which food would he reach for first? What hilarious gems or insightful words would he contribute to the conversation? Every gathering, every single time, there's someone missing who will never join us again.

Today, I'll light a candle and listen to Amir's favorite music and think of him in the way only I remember him, for my relationship with him was unlike anyone's else and he will always be mine to hold close and remember.

*I heard this quote on All There Is, Anderson Cooper's wonderful podcast about grief and loss.