John Carrier

I heard a story once that when I was maybe three years old, Bobby held me by the ankles over the rail of the second-floor landing in the house where we grew up, my wavy brown hair hanging fifteen feet above the ground, my thrilled and terrified shriek filling the front hall.

When someone told him to put me down that instant, I said, “No, it’s okay.  Bobby’s making me tough.”

In truth I never knew a man with a tougher disposition, or a gentler heart.

My brother died today.  He was a good man.  I loved him.  I will miss him terribly.

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