Remembering Austin

Austin,

Today marks three years since you passed away. Three years of mourning you, missing you, and wishing you were still here. Three years in which my life has changed dramatically, and yours assumed a permanence etched only in memories, photographs, and artifacts of your earthly existence. In these years, I have not spent a single day without thinking of you. You are my incorporeal confidant, my chief motivation, and (best of all) my big brother.

Grieving you is confusing and unpredictable. It is crying (a lot), smiling (a lot), extracting strength from memories, and reminding myself that you are still with me. For better or worse, I no longer know myself the way that I did before you passed away. I surprise myself with my bravery, lose myself in my emotions, and push myself to make the most of every opportunity because I am living my life for the both of us now.

I find fragments of you in everyone I meet, every place I visit, and everything that I do. Sometimes, my eyes water when I see hoodies, joggers, and skate shoes (your signature outfit). My breath catches in my throat when I encounter someone of your height and build. Even Arianna's handwriting makes me emotional because it is an uncanny shadow of yours. (You would be so proud of her, Buddy. She's a lot like you.) Often, I'll hear a song and imagine how much you would like it. I've made you a couple of playlists, written you countless letters, and stared so intently at our photographs that they almost transport me back in time. I know that you are still with me, still around me, and still here—just in a form that I have to learn how to recognize.

We were different people, but we balanced each other out; I am organized chaos, you were disorganized calm. I often think about how (despite my contestation) you put water, salt, and pasta into the pot before turning on the burner to “save time” while cooking. (Try I might to convince you of the sanctity of pasta and the importance of proper cooking techniques, you only responded with a playful, brotherly smirk that said "watch me.") I remember the way you woke up only five minutes before you left the house; the time I was sick and you brought me a bowl of dry oatmeal and rolled your eyes at me when I asked if you were joking; how we would spend hours building forts in the woods, biking around the island, playing video games, and—when we were older—driving around listening to music and talking about life. I miss everything, even our misunderstandings and disagreements, conversations through closed teeth and slammed doors, unspoken truces over mugs of hot chocolate. Despite our differences, we always had each other's back. I counted on you, and you counted on me.

You were fearless, unapologetically yourself, and perfectly imperfect. I grew up in awe of your courage, frustrated by your wit, and determined to be just like you. In a strange way, losing you means having you in each moment of every day. To remember you is to feel unparalleled joy and love at the same time as immense pain, sadness, and confusion. Although you passed away at the young age of 21, you will live on forever in the memories and hearts of those who loved you. I'll do my best to honor you for the rest of my days.

I have so much to tell you, and I am desperate for your wisdom and insight.

I love and miss you to infinity and beyond.

~Ash

P.S.

I stumbled upon some of the songs from that mix you used to play during our drive to school back in 2015. One of them was released on Mac Miller's Faces ("New Faces v2 (feat. Earl Sweatshirt and Da$h). I came across it while listening to Faces cover to cover for the first time. I laughed, cried, and played it over and over again. I am so grateful that you are still playing an active role in my life like this.