My dad and my brother would each have had a milestone birthday this month. Dad would have had a milestone over 100 and Norm would have hit a milestone right around retirement age. And only I am here to know that. How strange that feels.

My dad was 48 when our parents married, 49 when I was born and 50 when Norm arrived. Being the child of older parents was different then than I think it is now. Mom died of cancer when both she, and we, were too young but Dad was never someone who was in robust health. So, losing him when we were in our early 30’s was a surprise, but not entirely a shock.

But I would never have imagined, and still can’t quite comprehend, that a moment of carelessness, doing a simple chore at home, would result in my brother not living to see his 47th birthday.

When Norm turned 40, I teased him for an entire year, starting a month after his February 13 birthday. Starting March 13, I sent him notes and cards and images clipped from magazines, all making fun of his impending “old age.” How certain I was that he would be with me forever, how confident that I would always be able to pick up the phone and say “Do you remember” or “What was the name of . . “

I felt responsible for Norm for my entire life. I covered up the scrapes we got into, I coached him on what to say and what not to say when we got into trouble. One memorable afternoon, when we were probably 4 and 5, we were jumping on his bed and it broke. The crashing sound brought Dad running up the stairs. We were, by then, sitting demurely and pretending to be innocent and I had told Norm not to say anything, to let me handle it. “Were you jumping on the bed?” Dad demanded. “No,” I said, “we were just sitting there watching it and it broke!” Dad ruefully shook his head while we tried not to look guilty.

When Norm had an accident at work, one summer during college, I took him to the emergency room and we kept it all to ourselves. There were so many times, I don’t even know if I can remember all of them. Over and over again, we were a league of two, something we took for granted then and that I miss, beyond measure, to this day.

It was not all one sided by any means. If I had a difficult issue, a tough day, a frustration, he was the person I would call. Just hearing his voice would settle me enough to breathe. And his counsel was always one I trusted. When my first marriage was crumbling, I spent the weekend with my brother and his family and talked it out endlessly with the only person who knew, and understood, me so well.

I had a number of dreams about Norm after his death, all sequential. In the final one, I have to tell him that his life has ended and he says to me “I would have had such a good life.” I say “Yes,” tears streaming down my face in the dream and in reality as well as now as I type these words. “You have to do that for both of us,” he said, “You have to do that for both of us.”

I hope that I have and I hope that I am doing just that. But the hole in my heart has never healed, the empty spot where he should be in the lives of his daughter and beautiful granddaughters, the vacant place the indulgent uncle to my children once filled, are empty.

Happy heavenly birthday Norm. I carry you in my memories, in my thoughts and in my prayers. I carry you always in my full heart.