Todd

Today’s is my oldest brother’s birthday. Todd was mythical to me when I was little. He was tall, handsome, funny, smart, and he went away a lot–boarding school, college, Alaska. I adored my big brother and he was the very first person to break my heart. He was imaginative, creative, so so smart, and funny. And he was always leaving. Todd had a spirit in struggle always.

Of my three siblings, he probably got under my skin the most because we’re very similar. The things that haunted his soul–dark thoughts, insecurities, a vicious internal editor, depression, fear–they also haunt mine, but for whatever reason to a lesser degree. That’s what makes Todd so remarkable, though, because no one fought harder against those things. No one. Every time he would get knocked down, often through a method of his own creation or invention, he would claw his way to the top of the next ridge to see the sunrise he sometimes welcomed and sometimes cursed.

I remember when I was little, if shadows or noises outside my bedroom window would scare me, he would go outside and spin a modified broomstick that morphed into his cleric-turned-paladdin’s staff and yell curses at the shadows haunting his baby sister. He would protect me.

Todd was the oldest. He was very tender and sensitive. He understood people. And he could charm them well–until he couldn’t. He was also the primary battleground upon which our parents fought. Todd brought us rock-n-roll and MTV and coffee icecream and truffles (my gateway drugs). He taught me chess. He was the ringleader of our group of four.

I still have voicemail messages from him with his booming “Hello, The Becc!” Todd died just a few weeks after we got Bryan’s diagnosis. I was already so numb that I didn’t even know how to process that. I still don’t. My big brother is gone. He left. Again. And my heart is still broken.