Today is my brother Mike’s birthday. He would have been 69 years old. It’s hard to imagine him at that age because in my mind, he is forever frozen in time—younger, vibrant, and carrying the spirit of an artist. My brother was a carver. Not just a hobbyist, but a true artist whose work caught the eye of a governor of the State of Washington. That governor bought one of his pieces for their personal collection. It was a moment of recognition for Mike’s immense talent, even as his life remained tumultuous.
Mike had a troubled childhood. To be honest, it was a troubled life all the way through. He wrestled with demons that sometimes felt too big to conquer. Ultimately, he died a violent death, a tragic end to a life that always seemed precariously balanced on the edge of chaos. But even in death, he’s never really left me. He still lives in my imagination—a persistent spirit that travels with me, whispering encouragement when I need it most. He tells me to “buck up,” to keep going, and to remember that living an artist’s life—or, in my case, a writer’s life—brings a purpose and focus that extends beyond the mundane routines of day-to-day existence.
As a writer, I often mine my life experiences to craft fiction. The funny thing about fiction is how often it reveals the truths we’re afraid to confront directly. One of my memories of Mike inspired a scene in my latest book, The Four-Bar Progression. It’s a moment that speaks to the quiet, human connections we sometimes overlook in the swirl of larger events.
I still remember the last conversation I ever had with Mike. It was decades ago. I asked him what he wanted for Christmas. “Socks,” he said. Just socks. It was such a simple request, almost painfully humble. I never got the chance to give him those Christmas socks. His death came before the holidays, and that small, unfinished gesture has lingered in my heart ever since.
Now, every holiday season, I buy a bag of socks and donate them in his name. It’s my way of honoring him, of keeping his memory alive in a way that feels tangible. It’s a small act, but it carries weight for me. It’s not just about the socks—it’s about recognizing the humanity in each of us, even in the smallest of requests.
So today, I say: Happy Birthday, Mikey. Thank you for the lessons, the memories, and the inspiration. You were a complicated soul, but you were also an artist, a brother, and a presence that will forever be etched into my life and my work. I’ll keep listening for your whispers, and I’ll keep bucking up, just like you’d want me to.