Dear Brandon

I miss you, big brother. It has been almost 19 months since you left us. Less than three months ago you were joined by our sweet mother. I know that you are busy up there. You must be so happy to be with Grandma and Grandpa, too.

Owen is turning eight in a few months. I was thinking that instead of buying him a new set of scriptures, I would give him yours. He'll need a new case, in blue, his favorite color. I wish you could be there for his baptism.

I miss your bear hugs, the way you would crack my back and squeeze the breath out of me with your strong arms. I miss the way you grinned and teased relentlessly. If I could go back in time and tell my teenage self that someday I'd be missing that...ha! Life is a crazy ride and I am holding on tight. I wish the Savior would hurry up and get here so we can all be together again.

Soren doesn't remember you. He knows who you are, because we talk about you often. He can identify you in a photo. But I don't think he remembers you. He was too little when you left. Not quite two when you visited last.

Owen has pictures of you on his wall. He gets a sad look on his face when we talk about you, and he gets very possessive of anything that you gave him. Even a pencil or a marker becomes special because you gave it especially to him. He's very attached to things that way. I'm glad he has things to hold onto that remind him of you. I have always been so grateful for the way that you 'uncled' him. You called often, just to talk to him. He was old enough to take the phone to his bedroom and close the door and have a private conversation with you. Thank you for reaching out to him and maintaining that special relationship.

I remember the discussion we had about being called 'Uncle.' You were trying to avoid the title because it made you feel old, but I insisted that it was what set you apart as having a special tie to my children. You were never just Brandon. Brandon could be anybody, a neighbor, a friend, somebody's dad. You had to be Uncle Brandon.

Do you remember riding in the back of Uncle Marty's white pickup truck? He used to toss nickels and dimes out the window into the bed of the truck where we would scramble gleefully to claim the money. Maybe he only did that once or twice, but it made a lasting impression on my young mind. Uncles are fun. Uncles are cool. Uncles do neat things for you. You were a great uncle.

I love you, Bruno. I miss your optimism. I miss you. Check in on us, will you?