My youngest brother, Christopher, died suddenly on December 11, 2024. He was 47 years old, 12 years younger than myself. He was full of life, mentored and trained by my father as a mason and followed in his footsteps, as one who builds things of stone, brick and cement, with the work of his hands. He left behind a daughter and son, a mother whose heart is broken, four older siblings, and hundreds of people who loved and admired him and his work.

As when my father died five years ago, I struggled to make meaning of his leaving this earth with the rest of us behind. There must be something that is to be done to carry their legacy of who they were forward. What is it that he wants me to do? To be?

I held one of his treasured and very used cement trowels in my hand and I knew. Everything he made was out in the world for all to see – it would last for decades. Centuries perhaps. Banks, homes and schools. His work is a gift to be admired.

I wasn’t doing that.

I filled notebooks of writing, every day pages filled, rarely sharing with the world my work. A blog with long seasons of neglect. A few academic articles published. He was telling me, after his death, put it out there – before it is too late. I’m 59 years old. Get to work. Get-er-done. He would be my guide, my biggest cheerleader, my mentor and teacher.

So, here I am, writing poems for my brother so he knows what he’s left behind. So, he knows his influence. So, he knows he is loved and will not be forgotten.

The Gift from the Trowel (poem #1 for Christopher)

What can I make of all this?
All that he left behind?
His daughter, his son.
A mother whose prayers
gave the wrong answer.

All the tools of the maker - 
concrete crusted saws and rusty blades,
missing drill bits and duct-taped cords.
Scattered and strewn here and there.

His trowel sits alone . . .
now out of the dance.

Like the brush of a painter,
the pen of a poet,
or the knife of a Maplewood carver - 
this tool of the artist,
now idle and still
is nothing without the art-maker.

My fingers embrace
the gray, faded, handle,
curling tightly where his would've been.
I feel his soft hand blanket warm over mine
as he decides to take over as guide.

His voice whispers so calmly, so wise and so brave - 
and says - Shari-boo - Big Sis -

it's your turn.