Dear John

Dear John,

September is National Suicide Awareness Month. For many, it may pass quietly, but for me, it awakens a deep, bittersweet ache—a mixture of remembrance, love, and longing. It brings me back to you, John: your smile that could light up a room, your quick wit, your warmth, and your laughter—forever imprinted on my heart. Today, I pause to reflect and honor you.

It was March 12, 2008. The school bell rang at 3:07 PM, signaling the end of yet another ordinary day in my junior year. The day had been unremarkable in the usual way: chatting with friends before class and at lunch, laughing in the hallways, taking notes in class, and navigating the small triumphs and dramas of being fifteen. Living only a few blocks from school, I looked forward to the short walk home—a quiet moment of reflection before homework and evening routines. That day, I lingered just a little longer with my friends, sharing jokes, making plans, and savoring those fleeting teenage moments.

The walk home felt peaceful. The spring sun warmed my face, a gentle breeze played through my long black hair, and the trees were alive with fresh green leaves. I breathed it all in, feeling connected to the world around me, blissfully unaware of the shadow that awaited.

As I neared the last block, I saw Mom’s car in the driveway, along with a few other familiar cars. At first, it didn’t alarm me—her friends visited often. But stepping inside, a strange heaviness washed over me. Turning toward the living room, my heart froze. Mom sat there, her reddened face buried in her hands, sobbing. Her friends hovered close, offering comfort, while Michael turned toward me with an unreadable expression. I dropped my backpack and whispered, trembling, “What’s going on?” His words were simple, piercing: “John is dead.”

For a moment, the world stopped. I couldn’t speak. Rhonda’s face said everything. Slowly, I understood—you had left this world on your own terms. I stepped away, numb and disoriented, tears streaming down my face as I sank onto the back deck to sit down. My hands shook. The comforting presence of Mom’s friends felt distant, unreal, as though I existed somewhere between worlds.

The next few days blurred together. I had lost my best friend, my brother, my anchor. Memories of our laughter, our talks, and our quiet moments together flooded my mind. Outwardly, I tried to appear strong, but inside, I felt shattered. I remember vaguely helping with funeral preparations—a monumental task for a fifteen-year-old. When Mom and Dad asked if I would speak at your service, fear gripped me, yet I knew it was the right thing to do. I wanted to honor you, to show courage in your memory.

The service was breathtaking. Flowers, pictures, friends, and family surrounded us in a wave of love and support. I appreciated every “I’m so sorry for your loss” and “He’s in a better place,” yet a part of me wanted to scream, to hide, to retreat into the pain that felt uniquely mine. But I knew you would not have wanted that. When my turn to speak came, my voice shook, my hands trembled, but I spoke of your love, your laughter, your light. And in that moment, I felt you with me—lifting me, giving me strength when I thought I had none.

The days that followed were some of the hardest of my life, even to this day. On March 29, my sixteenth birthday, we scattered your ashes along the Platte River. It was bittersweet—celebrating a birthday without you—but I carried you with me in my heart. Grief transformed over time—sadness, then anger, then guilt. I questioned endlessly: Could I have done more? Yet slowly, I realized there was nothing more I could do. You had already given me everything: love, laughter, and strength. Even now, your presence continues to fuel my resilience, to remind me of joy, courage, and compassion.

Thank you, John. Thank you for being my brother, for your love, for giving my life meaning in ways only you could. I miss you every single day, and I carry your memory forward in everything I do. I hope, with all my heart, that I continue to make you proud.

With all my love, always,
Your little sister,
Laura