After my brother died, in what can only be described as a tragic, and senseless, accident, my grief knew no bounds. I functioned but I know that I was a shadow of myself for a long time. We had the gift of being the best of friends in addition to being siblings and we had the crucible of losing both of our parents to forge our bond even more strongly.

After Norm died, I journaled every night, tears running down my face. And I had a series of dreams about him, dreams that were a sort of progression. In the first, I came upon him in deep woods. He could not speak to me but I knew he was asking me where he should go. I didn’t know what to say but I woke up in tears. The second dream found me in a room. It had big glass walls and I saw him behind one of them. I ran to the wall and he put his hands up on one side and I put mine on the other. More tears, more emptiness.

The third and final dream woke me screaming and crying hysterically. My husband still remembers that night. I was in my parent’s house and I walked into Norm’s old room. My cousin was with me and we both saw Norm sitting in a rocking chair (a bentwood like the one he had given me years before as a gift). I screamed “He’s alive! He’s alive!” I ran to him and knelt down beside the chair. He looked at me and said “I hurt. I think my ankle is broken, and, as he had in life, he looked to me to confirm, And I knew in that moment what I had to do. I said “Honey, you are broken all over” and I saw the comprehension in his eyes and in his face. He fixed me with those beautiful hazel eyes and said quietly “I would have had some good life.” I nodded and he said “You need to have a good life. You need to do that for both of us.” And while I did not say the words, I knew that was, and still is, my obligation.

I can recall every second, every image of that dream. I sobbed in the bathroom as I wrote it all out that night but I didn’t need the written words then nor do I need them now. It is as clear to me today as it was when it happened. Sometimes when I feel frustrated or anxious or stymied, I think about the commitment I made to Norm. I think about how blessed I am to have the opportunity to live “that good life” he was deprived.

It is fresh in my mind right now because I just had the incredible gift of holding his second granddaughter. These two beautiful girls, and his extraordinary daughter, are his legacy and his gift to the future. I look for him in them, I look for his smile, his laugh, his dry sense of humor. I look for his soft heart and his concern for everyone’s feelings and everyone’s welfare. I held this new baby and nuzzled her and thought how much I wish he could have been there holding her, how freely the tears of joy would have run down his face. I thought about her big sister, all of 3, and full of life and joy and sass and I could almost see her racing to him, filled with the joy of his presence, the joy he brought to everyone he knew, everyone he touched.

We all owe ourselves that good life, remembering to savor every moment, remembering that—no matter what we do—life changes in the space between one heartbeat and the next. We must remember that every day is a gift and every day is an opportunity to fill our full hearts.