Dear Brother,

You know I was always afraid to answer a call. It's not that you managed to race me to the rotary phone. I let you believe that, slowing down on purpose.

Now that you're gone, I stand here laughing through my tears, remembering the tomfoolery. Growing up with you, my younger brother, was the best childhood anyone could have. Yes, we did fight a lot and snickered when the other got chastised by dad, or mom. But I wouldn't have had it any other way. Ever.

Brother, you always raced ahead, like the Virar fast local, even as I lagged behind like an all-stops train. It was also why I stand here today. The fateful night of 1st Jan.

The world was getting ready to ring in the new year when the other ring startled us-- the phone ring. While rest of the family slept, I awoke and, somehow, answered the phone. That was the last I, or anyone else, heard from you.

When the police called the next morning, I could sense the rising dread on dad's face. The journey to the station where we found your mortal remains was punctuated with sudden gasps of breath, a lot of praying, and forcing ourselves to stay positive.

You had fallen off a train, they said, although that was never confirmed. Far more sinister causes came to mind. None could bring you back. What was confirmed, for sure, was the fact that we had a gaping hole now. In our family and in our hearts.

This morning, mum called, and I dragged my feet to the phone. I knew why she had called, and as always, I was afraid to answer it.

Rest in peace.

You reach that stage in life where you are attending more funerals than weddings. And the former is why we have gathered today. We are here to say “Goodbye” to Dennis.

I don’t remember the actual moment I met Den, even though he had an imposing presence at 6’2”, two hundred plus pounds with a personality to match. It was probably during my freshman year in college at a mixer sponsored by the science department. Whenever it was, an immediate friendship was forged. Without any hesitation or effort, it morphed into a brotherhood lasting over forty years.

He was from New Hampshire; I was an Ohioan, so we had the shared desire of not pursuing a higher education on a campus requiring snow removal four months out of the year. Plus, although we both grew up landlocked, we had a kindred affinity for the ocean. Attending the University of Miami satisfied both these requirements.

After graduation, he got married and remained in South Florida. I was disillusioned and moved back North. But we remained in touch. Upon my return to Miami two years later, he and his wife welcomed me back with open arms like a prodigal son. We picked up where we left off without skipping a beat.

For however long you knew Dennis, whether a portion, a majority, or the entirety of your life, you were fortunate. The duration was irrelevant because his welcoming warmth never waned. Your days were brighter, which made your months fuller which meant your years were richer. Dennis elevated you. His impact was profound because he was genuine. He was a constant in a very inconsistent world. Den could have taught a MasterClass or given a TED speech on the fundamentals of being a great friend.

In Den you had an ally. He shared your triumphs without stealing the spotlight. He was a confidante who pulled you up without being judgmental. He’d give you an honest opinion or a differing viewpoint in a way that didn’t belittle you. And he knew things. He soaked up information on a variety of subjects. He’d have the answers to your questions, no matter how obscure the inquiry seemed. And if he didn’t know the answers, he’d make a point to find them for you. Dennis was Google before Google was Google.

He fully embraced life and sought experiences which he wanted to share with others. He led the way to adventures, whether off the beaten path or right into the thick of things. If anyone was hesitant, he encouraged/dragged them along because he knew good times were to be had. He was usually correct too, because there were enumerable good times. Much to your liver’s detriment, but good times, nonetheless.

I am eternally grateful for sharing so many years with him. Although our journey reached its conclusion, well before I would have liked, his treasured guidance remains. I can take comfort in knowing I’m the person I am today because of meeting Dennis.

On Friday February 31st of 2025 we lost Mrs. Annie B. Long. She was born September 22, 1925.

Mrs. Long would've been a centurion this year. She worked most of her productive years as a teacher with the Hanover Virginia Education System. She gave most of her spare time to volunteering at the after school programs at the YWCA helping students of all ages with their homework.

Mrs Long was a proud mother of two children. She will be an angel for her daughter, Kathy Long and her twins Helen and Holly. Also she will be an angel for her son David Long Jr. and his son Jasper.

She also leaves behind three sisters, Jackie Hall, Joyce Cane, and Kim Bridges. She will be a guiding light for 11 nieces and nephews. She also leaves many friends and distant family as well.

Mrs. Annie Long wanted her family to celebrate her introduction to heaven at her wake which will be held at the Bishop Funeral Home at 3201 Park Ave Henrico, VA. 23228

Remembering Mrs. Long is missing her famous apple pie and her friendly smile whenever she came around. You will never be forgotten, Mrs. Annie B. Long

My brother's ghost watches over us, aware of the death we all fear. We witnessed towering fires fueled by hate, the broken bodies of men—some dead, others grieving—and faced death with a smile. We fought as brothers, not for glory or anger, but as lost boys seeking meaning in this life. I count on him still, to remind me of the tasks ahead; his ghostly presence grips my grief.

He succumbed to a silent death in his sleep, only hours after we talked about a vacation. He led an adventurous life, surrounded by loved ones and making friends wherever he went. His absence leaves a void, but his legacy of joy, exploration, and connection will always be with us.

We are all affected by death. I have lost friends, people I cared for, and my brother–a loss that we both felt deeply. I lost you too, Mom, multiple times. Some mistakes were mine; others, yours. For a while now, I have been terrified that our estrangement was a mistake. That when you died, it would break me.

These things are meant for the living, not the dead, and I suspect that most people will think I am a monster for speaking out here… but I am part of the living.

I won’t go into detail about what she did and didn’t do for us as a parent. I won’t pretend that I am not angry, either. Relationships are complex, and difficult. I want to explain how this estrangement came about.

We rarely spoke unless she needed something, but that wasn’t enough of a reason. I had honestly forgiven her for our childhood. As adults, we all did what we could to care for her, and when she lost her son, I know that it broke her. We all pitched in to care for her. She didn’t reciprocate. It was all one way. It always was.

Still, this didn’t stop us; we kept trying. I have never been good at caring for myself but having a kid has fixed something inside me. When I thought that she didn’t care about my daughter, I left. In some ways, I think I was wrong. In her own way, she cared about her, but I couldn’t risk my child being hurt by her, so I kept my distance.

I realise that what I am doing may be selfish. But I also want people to know that I don’t hate my mother. I want nobody here to assume that just because we didn’t speak, she was a bad person. I do not think she was.

She kept her kids fed and clothed. She gave me her sense of humour, her eclectic taste in music and culture. She thought that everyone should be treated equally, even if she struggled, like we all do, not to put some ahead of others. I forgave my mom for any wrong she ever did me and my siblings, and I understand that her past also made her unable to be the person she might have wanted to be. Even as I kept my distance, I didn’t hate her. Fear gripped me for my daughter’s sake, and my own. In many ways, we both failed each other.

Despite the distance I kept, I bear her no ill will. More than that, I love her. I hope that she is at peace now, and I am glad for anyone who was able to be her friend, past or present. To anyone who loved her and needs support, I offer the support I couldn't give her in life. With the resources available, she did the best she could - that's all anyone can ask.

Your son.