My older brother and I lived on opposite coasts and saw little of each other. Two weeks ago, I was visiting his home because I had heard that his health was failing. I wanted to see him before he passed. Initially, I was going to tease him about his discourse having been reduced to MAGA talking points. But as my travel date approached, a violent wrenching within my chest and stomach compelled me to focus solely on thanking him. He had let me live in his home while I was in college. Moreover, after I finished school, he and his wife took care of our mother while I was in San Francisco running my life into the ground.

To thank him sincerely, I had to weed out resentment over our political differences. I know I succeeded in conveying that gratitude even before I arrived at his death bed, because as soon as I referred to my years living under his roof, he said “I was always looking for ways to throw you out; it’s your sister-in-law who loves you.”

It’s still hard to think of my sister-in-law as my brother’s widow. But she became that as soon as my nephew, John, their eldest son, a physician, stopped trying to detect a pulse. He had been moving the pressure strap up and down the left arm, inflating the cuff, then pulling it loose. Finally, he tossed it aside and burst into tears.

Each of us had our own response to my brother’s ceasing to breathe. And each of us had our own reasons to believe that he was still aware of his surroundings, that he was listening with other-worldly acute attention or that his spirit was still in the room. We held hands as we encircled the bed. I can’t recall the order in which the children spoke or who said what. But things like this got said, “Go toward the light, Dad. Loved ones who’ve gone before are waiting for you. You’re headed for heaven; don’t turn back now and risk messing up again.” That last encouragement puzzled me because I was in the dark about any earlier mess.

A few more filial ejaculations, then my sister-in-law suggested we sing my brother’s favorite songs. Everyone knew “You Are My Sunshine.” But they looked toward me for the words to “Old Smokey.” Although a pale substitute for my brother, I called out the lyrics correctly until we reached the green willow tree. “I don’t remember the rest,” I said, “I’m sorry.” My sister-in-law came to the rescue as she often does, this time with the leaves they will wither. That knocked free in my memory the roots they will die, followed by the final admonition about being forsaken and never knowing why. Hoping to have pleased my brother, we applauded his arriving in heaven and avoiding a return to sin.

There are many things to applaud in my brother’s life: a distinguished career on the bench, a 70-year marriage, a large family—really a dynasty—that extended beyond successful children, to successful grandchildren and even to great grandchildren. From a healthy heart, these achievements elicit admiration. In mine, jealousy threatens to turn a brother’s passing into a story about me, a family tableau in which somehow I am the sad central figure.

Eventually, we had to call the funeral home to remove my brother’s body, ears and all. Through sobs, John, the physician, insisted we hold off for those who had been out of the house briefly on errands. They deserved the chance to come back and say or sing their own goodbyes. I was still wondering about the earlier mess that might have barred my brother’s entry into heaven. Exploring its entrails might give me the satisfaction of his having failed badly, even scandalously in at least one endeavor. Despite this itch to find out, respect restrained my curiosity, my blind rage. I never probed for details, and—Damn it!—so far at least, they have not come to light.

Chuck Teixeira grew up amid the anthracite collieries of northeastern Pennsylvania. Early on, he received university degrees including an M.A. from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins and a J.D. from Harvard Law School. Chuck practiced law for many years in San Francisco, California then taught English in Bogota, Colombia.