Sometimes words are not enough.
I’ve always thought of words as magic. They evoke things that aren’t present. They construct realities. They preserve legacies. They enable civilizations — every bridge, skyscraper and automobile started as an idea articulated with words.
Ever since I was a child, words have helped me not just navigate the world but find a place in it. “You’re a writer,” my dad tells me. To him it’s a casual truism. The L.A. sky is clear after a storm and his daughter is a writer. That’s just the way it is because if I’m genuinely good at anything, which I might not be, it’s writing. It’s the one thing I couldn’t not do. If I couldn’t run anymore, I would take up swimming. If I couldn’t play the violin, I would still listen to recordings. But not writing? Unthinkable.
Right now, though, words feel beyond inadequate. What do you say to a friend whose brother has just died? What good are words spoken over the phone, 2,200 miles away? No matter what you say it feels like giving a starving man a blanket. It might make him slightly more comfortable, but it’s not what he needs.
Sometimes I think about my relationship with my two younger brothers, which is unique in the same way that all sibling relationships are unique. Nobody but us knows what it was like to grow up in our household with our family. We have intuitive understandings of one another based upon years’ worth of shared experiences. Sometimes watching my brother speak I notice that he, like my father, can become the center of attention with a few well-timed quips. I don’t know if it’s learned, inherited or both, but they can both command a room. Other times I can see a brother going to bat for someone the way my mom does; still other times I see adolescent insecurities peeking through. Most of all I notice how uncanny it is that despite how different the three of us are on the surface, we think in remarkably similar ways. The thought of my friend losing the one person with whom he shared that bond leaves me paralyzed.
On the rare occasions that I have really, truly suffered (and even that suffering was not on par with the death of a sibling), I’ve tried to take note of what made me feel better so I could remember it for when I needed to console someone. The thing about being human, though, is we tend to forget those moments as some sort of coping mechanism. How can we maintain any type of optimism about the world if every past trauma still feels raw and present? I just remember knowing intellectually that I would get through it — but not really feeling like I would. What helped most was being able to acknowledge that I felt shitty and it was okay. James Morrison summed it up well: “I know that it’s a wonderful world but I can’t feel it right now.” I also reminded myself that one day I would wake up and it wouldn’t be a surprise to remember that things had changed for the worse. I think the only thing that helps is time because only time brings acceptance and new memories. The new memories are the key. But I can’t give time; I can only give words. So here they are, shortcomings and all:
It breaks my heart to think about what you and your family are going through, G. He was such a good person, and you know what? It’s not fair. Not fair at all. But you and your family will get through this. We love you. And even if your world is never the same again, you will find a way to live and be happy in the new one you’ve been stuck with.





















