On this day in 2002, I got the phone call.

Everybody remembers where they were when President Kennedy was assassinated. Or if you are younger, maybe when men first landed on the moon. Or even where you were when the Twin Towers fell on 9/11.

I don’t remember exactly where I was when I got the call. My wife and I were in a motel just outside Los Angeles, but I forget which town. It doesn’t matter.

My niece Ali Kinsman called and broke the news. Craig died.

I thanked her — numb, in shock.

As soon as I hung up, I convulsed in tears, howling with rage. It was so unfair. Why did it have to happen?

Estelle grabbed me in a tight hug, but I could feel no comfort.

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“We all knew this day was coming, though we hoped it never would.
But it finally came and now he’s gone for good.”

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I phone his wife, Joy, a couple of days before. It was Craig’s 49th birthday and he had just been released from the hospital. He was sent home for the last time. I asked how Craig was doing, and she told me he was in a coma. But — always clinging to hope — I reassured myself that people come out of comas.

Not this time.

As the disease progressed, Craig needed more and more medical procedures. I think one of the last ones was removal of his gall bladder. The creeping evil was taking over his body and all we could do was hope for a miracle.

I kept crying, the anger and grief spilling out of me. After all, there was nothing I could do. But I did have Estelle to comfort me.

There was no funeral in the traditional church sense. Joy arranged a memorial service in Wichita — their home.

Craig and Joy had enjoyed camping out and cultivated a circle of friends who were historical recreators. Craig assumed the identity of a mountain man, and they would go camping, roughing it in a modern way. He told me they sang and told stories around the campfire, and arranged knife and hatchet throwing exhibitions. Craig was also a gun afficionado and there was a lot of recreational shooting.

The group came to Craig’s memorial in costume and offered salutes to him that were very touching. But even more touching were the stories they told me about my brother — these people I’d never known.

When Craig got sick, many of them became solicitous. But Craig turned the tables on them. When they wanted to check on his well-being, Craig would inquire about their various problem, offer sympathy and help. One ran into him in the waiting are of the emergency room. Craig expressed concern why she was there. After all, it was no secret why Craig might be there, but he was concerned that something had happened to one of his friends.

He was always — if not chipper — positive and thoughtful. The only time I heard him grumble — even a little bit — was when he told me over the phone, “How come nobody offers Make-A-Wish to me?” He expressed a desire to attend the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas, but he didn’t survive long enough even if he would have been well enough to attend.

I was in Las Vegas when Craig told me he had Cancer. Estelle and I lived there around 2000-2001. This was just after 9/11 and Craig told me that there was something on his x-ray. He wasn’t one to complain, and the way he handled it discouraged any direct discussion of morbid subjects.

On one of our talks, I broke down — and I didn’t want to do that. He was the one with a deadly illness, so what did I have to cry about. I was 45 years old, for cryin’ out loud.

I told him, “I don’t think I’m a good American. I’d rather have a big brother than Twin Towers.”

I felt ashamed because so many people died, and I was just selfish wanting my brother to survive.

He didn’t make me feel ashamed. He always said the right things to make me feel better.

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“How could any box contain a heart as big as what he had,
And all the love he gave to all he knew?
How could any of us say goodbye? How could we let him know,
What he meant to us, and how we loved him so?”

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The pain of loss subsides, but it never goes away. Everyone leaves a mark in this world, and the physical remains turn to memories. But memories are an important building block of life. Memories are something we should preserve and cherish — and that is why I continue to publicly revive these memories. Selfish? I consider them my contribution to improving life in general.

(Lyric Excerpts from the unpublished song “Outside The Box/Larger Than Life.” Lyrics by Laura Principato, music by Wade B Ward copyright 2009.