Growing up, Don and I were more than cousins, we were brothers in every way that mattered. We were born just two weeks apart, and from the very start of our lives we were side by side. Even though we used the word cousin, the truth is that we were brothers, and that is how we lived and how we loved each other.
Life handed us the same hard beginning, and our grandparents became our home. We grew up under the same roof in our formative years, with the same memories, the same struggles, and the same deep understanding that only he and I shared. I knew him from birth, and he knew me, and that bond shaped us for life.
Don was the calm one, the wise one, the steady one. I was the impulsive one, the hot-headed one, the one he always managed to bring back to center. He lived a good and righteous life, clean and disciplined and generous. He made people better, and he made me better. His granddaughter adored him, his family loved him deeply, and every person he touched carries a piece of him with them.
I never imagined writing something like this for him. In my heart, he was supposed to be the one standing at my memorial someday, not the other way around. Losing him has left me in disbelief and anguish, and the world feels darker without his steady presence.
But I want everyone reading this to know that Don was the best part of our shared story. From birth until now, he was my brother, my anchor, my calm in the storm. I will miss him for the rest of my life, and I will carry him with me until my last breath.