My heart is unimaginably broken. My little brother and my best friend passed away this morning at home (heart attack). I still remember eight-year old Galen walking in the tall summer grass on the steep slope of Whiteface Mountain in Lake Placid, New York, wearing his multi-colored geometrically patterned Nike windbreaker — That summer my dad picked us up from our grandparent’s Victorian cottage on Wellesley Island, New York, and we drove seemingly everywhere across upstate New York and New England with our canoes on top of my dad’s yellow mag-wheeled Dodge Streetvan. We had no agenda, no plans. We stopped and canoed up random little streams in the Adirondacks, drank ice cold water from fresh springs, we swam wherever there was water and a few minutes to stop on those endless summer days.

One night we camped at a campground. Each campsite had warning sign to not leave out food because of the bears. Of course, we left food out on the picnic table, hoping a bear would swing by during the night. The food was gone. We convinced ourselves that it was bears!

Galen, Russ, and I argued over the music on the road trips — and we each took turns listening to both sides of one cassette. My soundtrack was Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America” — I don’t remember what Galen or Russ’ favorites were, but we always unanimously agreed on Rush’s “Exit … Stage Left.”

Those summers were so magical — Galen, Russ and me spending the entire summer with our grandparents in 1,000 Islands, New York. We swam, fished, rode our BMX bikes to remote parts of the Island, places we thought that no one ever saw before, and got into trouble all day — walking barefoot on the soft partially melting tar roads in TI Park, swimming to Bathhouse Shoal, laying on the rocks along the St. Lawrence River, catching sunnies and rock bass (Russ always caught smallmouth bass and pike) and rushing home at the sound of the noon and 5 o’clock whistles — a piercing whistle that erased the silence of the leaves ruffling in the gentle summer breeze and drown out the faint trailing sounds of distant motorboats passing through the channel to Eel Bay, Gananoque, Ontario, or to the other side of the massive Island.

Grandma made us “hamburgs” (spoken in a western PA/NY accent) cooked on a flat iron skillet and pounded thin on parchment paper, heavily sprinkled with salt and pepper. At night, we went to the double feature at the Tabernacle, which was essentially a rectangular white covered space with large tarps as windows and a sawdust floor, that was located at the back of Thousand Island Park and built against the backdrop of a forested hill. Grandma made us fresh popcorn, gave us a candy bar, and a can of store band (usually IGA) soda.

Bronc (our dad) also took us to Action Park at least once a year, either before or after our summers with our grandparents on Wellesley Island. Galen still reminisced about Action Park — and we always said we’d go to whatever it’s called now, but just never seemed to make it happen. We also talked about going to Thousand Island Park again, with our families, but somehow life interfered and we were never really able to plan that —

Galen moved to San Francisco after high school and was into grunge before grunge even existed. He was indescribably passionate about music and introduced me to so many bands since we were teens until well into adulthood — and prior to music snobbery asserting a more dominant role in his musical tastes. He was a prolific music downloader during the post-Napster era and every few months he’d send me dozens of data CDs filled with albums. I looked forward to exploring all the new music he’d send me! Over the decades he collected thousands and thousands of vinyl records — so many rare records — and more recently he began buying and reselling them on eBay. I admired his profound record knowledge so much. Last year I discovered two signed Jesus and Mary Chain prints that I bought in 2015 at their concert at the Marquee in Tempe — I bought one for Galen and one for me. I recently texted him a picture of my framed poster and told him that his print was in New Jersey. A few weeks before he passed away, he dryly texted me “Don’t fuck it up.”

Galen also loved cycling. He was a cycling enthusiast and his basement is filled with mountain and street bicycles (Galen and Russ are both cycling enthusiasts) — Galen and I talked about getting (my 9 year old daughter) Bridget more mountain biking experience and I looked forward to spending more time in Philly riding the trails near G’s house. In February, he came to Arizona for three weeks and rode on some remote bike packing trails way out in the desert. The overprotective older brother in me spent $500 on a Garmin GPS emergency beacon plus the annual subscription so he’d be able to contact me and/or the authorities in case of an emergency. He loved the trip! And he wanted to bike pack in Southern Utah later this year. Cycling brought him peace — Galen passed away with a childhood wound that never healed, and I’ve felt so much guilt in my life that we could not protect him more. I cannot stop thinking about that innocent and vulnerable little boy on Whiteface Mountain. I will never forget him.

He was the best uncle to Bridget. And he and Jenny always brought Little B the most amazing gifts every time we were all together — not stupid dolls from Target, but meaningful gifts that inspired Bridget’s creativity and imagination in some way — gifts that were stimulating and interactive. She loved them! And she loved her Uncle G. I could see the heartbreak in her eyes this morning — she is too young to understand, but she can nonetheless feel that he’s gone.

It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to let go. I feel confusion. Sadness. A strong pull toward and into a dark space I’ve never imagined — not even when our father passed away. Where are you, Galen? Are you at peace? Life will never be the same without you. I love you. I miss you. And I will miss your presence until the day I die. You will always be my little brother. Rest in peace, G.

Thank you,
Sean