When my brother passed away last year, I didn’t know how to handle it. Felt lost, you know? Couldn’t just sit around crying all day. Needed something to do. I started hunting for quotes. Missing my brother in heaven quotes, angel brother quotes – typed in all kinds of stuff online. Found hundreds.
Printed ’em all out. Every single one. Big stack of papers on the kitchen table. Sat there staring at these perfect words people use when someone dies. Felt… wrong. Like wearing someone else’s shoes. Too shiny, too clean for the messy hole he left. They talked about angels and perfect peace. Felt like a bunch of nonsense when I remembered him stealing my fries just last month.
The whole thing pissed me off, honestly. Threw the papers on the floor. My dog came over, sniffed at them, then grabbed one sheet and started chewing. Watched him. Saw him chewing a quote that said, “Forever in my heart.” And then I laughed. A real, crack-your-ribs laugh. Because Mike hated cheesy crap like that. If he saw the dog eating that quote, he’d laugh too. Maybe fist-bump the dog. That felt more real than anything printed.
What Actually Worked
Stopped looking at other people’s words. Started doing things that felt like him:
- Cooked his disaster chili: Seriously, dude added cinnamon. Looked awful. Burned my tongue. Loved every horrible bite.
- Played his stupid video games: Loaded up his save file. Died instantly on level 3, just like he always did. Cussed at the screen like he taught me.
- Told terrible jokes out loud: To the dog, the empty chair, the ugly mug he gave me. His jokes weren’t funny. But saying them felt good.
- Kept the weirdest stuff: Threw out flowers people sent. Kept the note he wrote on a pizza box (“Pay me back Tuesday”). Put it on the fridge.
Didn’t light candles. Didn’t set up an “altar.” Didn’t force feelings. Some days I did nothing. Some days I yelled at his picture. Sometimes I just sat with that punched-in-the-gut feeling. Got quiet.
Realized remembering isn’t about fancy words. Not about being sad properly. It’s grabbing hold of the stupid, messy, awkward, real pieces they left behind. Like the dog chewing that paper. Mike would have called it performance art. Would have told the dog it was genius. That’s how I remember him now. Not an angel. Just Mike. Cinnamon chili and all.
