James M. Haas (8/18/1972 - 8/10/1984)

Certain events in the course of a life pound-in permanent mile markers. They mark the otherwise smooth passage of time in a way that gives your life scale. They are the events that stand out against the seemingly endless stream of working days and broken-down cars. The day I married Megan and the day James was born are a couple of good examples. The day my brother died is another very good example.

I was little, let's say six years old. It was summer, August to be exact. It was summer back when summers were long. School was out, so there were no days of the week. It was just one long sweaty day after another. We did whatever we wanted when we wanted. That can't possibly be true, but that's how I remember it. Oddly, I have no recollection of when I was first told there had been an accident. I remember lying out on the sloped front lawn in the lingering summer daylight and discussing whether our summer vacation would be ruined. I remember going to the home of a family friend, and playing hind-and-go-seek, or something like that, in the backyard. I remember that I could still run at full-bore without stopping for as long I wanted. I would get tired, but I would never have to stop if I didn't want to.

Someone woke me up. It seemed like the middle of the night, but it probably wasn't. I think it was my brother Roy who fetched me. I remember looking at Jamie's bed. I think I already felt a complicated nagging pit in my stomach. I could tell something was wrong, but I don't know what. My bare feet stuck to the wooden stairs. It was humid, and everything was sticky. It was always hot and sticky in Indiana, and the summers used to last forever back then. They've gotten a lot shorter. I think I already knew they were never going to be the same. My mom was sitting in the parlor. I was still at that age where you can't quite tell where you end and your mom starts. I sat in her lap. Other people were there, I think. I don't remember feeling self-conscious. I don't remember feeling scared. I don't remember being confused. I don't even remember sadness; that comes later. I don't remember the words, though I'm pretty sure "died" was one of them. I remember feeling something deeply. Now, as an adult, that feeling has mixed with the smell of summer and the sweat and stickiness of a humid afternoon. It can't really be spoken directly.

My brother was an unusual person. He was sometimes the object of ridicule, but I don't believe it bothered him much. I remember that he suffered occasional acts of cruelty, but then who didn't. He would bite his fist when he was angry or excited. He did that until he developed a callous on his hand. I suppose if I were older, he would have been embarrassing at times. I suspect he was. Embarrassing, but almost never embarrassed. He was, and no one who knew him would deny this, entirely himself. Entirely himself, and then entirely gone. Just like that.

The rest of us live. In obituaries they always say that someone was "survived" by their family members still living. I guess that's what we are, survivors. James McGlynn Haas was survived by two brothers, two sisters, his mother and father, all four of his grandparents, and one of his great-grandparents. That's a lot of surviving. All of that surviving led to some new survivors, his nephews, James, Michael, Daniel, and Timothy. Most recently, he is survived by a new niece, Sadie. Only one of his grandparents is alive today, but there have been a lot of survivors there too. The point, I guess, is that we have all been driving our own mile markers since that sweaty August day. We have seen a lot of broken-down cars and even more work days. We have plowed through the grief and guilt and right on down the road. Still, on a long hot summer day my mind often turns to my brother, James McGlynn, and his short life. That's what survivors do I guess.

--Terrence