My brother Henry died four years ago today on April 6, 2018. Here he is with my father and mother.

My brother, kind of nerdy, with the pen in his shirt pocket, and my father, with his Indian belt buckle. I still have that buckle.

This photo was taken probably some time in the early 1990’s or even the late 1980’s. Henry’s hair had not started to turn white. I’m not sure when it was taken, but it was before health problems started making it harder for everyone to smile.

I have written before about how hard it is for me to internalize the loss of my family. When I look photos like this it feels as if they are pictures from a particularly engaging novel or movie, not something that was an actual part of my own life.

But I also feel like they are still here. Henry especially. So it’s two worlds, one where they don’t exist, and one where they do.

I have said that I think (believe? hope? maybe?) that the past actually exists, out of our reach, of course, but still there, if only we could invent a time machine. When I think of my family back there, it’s like seeing into the past, but with a dirty, vignetting telescope.

I suppose the only good thing is that I remember them they way they are in the photograph, not the way they were right before they died.