I was just reading Angi’s post about losing her father-in-law earlier this week (hugs). As such things do, it reminded me of my cousin, Jim. It’s been 14 years since he died, and I still miss him terribly. I think I probably always will. Jim was one of only four first cousins that I had (the other three are alive and well), and the only one older than me, by three years. Jim and I were only children (no siblings), and our mothers sisters. We saw each other quite a few times every year while we were growing up, whenever the sisters wanted to get together. Jim and I were always close. Always. In the photo here I was seven and Jim was ten. It was 1967.

When Jim graduated high school he spent the next eight years in Germany in the service; we corresponded often. When we came back—well, I was living in a small town in northern California and he came up to visit me. I knew when to expect him, and had been spending all my time looking out the window, waiting. I saw a car drive up and park in front of my place. I knew it was him. I could feel it. I dashed out the door and down the walk. He jumped out of his car, met me part way, lifted me into his arms and swung me around and around. It was fabulous. Just fabulous to see him again. Remembering that day still makes me weep. I still miss him terribly.

Jim died at 34 of head injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident (no helmet) on his way to work. He would have survived the abdominal injuries. Oh, Jim. Jim never married, and had no children that he knew of. Though he knew exactly what his wedding would be like, if he’d gotten to do that. Had the whole thing planned out. Sweet man.

Jim died less than a year before I met my husband, Dave. The first time Dave saw a photo of Jim he knew, he just knew, that they would have been fabulous friends. I’ve never doubted it.

The hardest thing I’ve done in my life, so far, was to go say goodbye before they unplugged life support. Our cousin, Michael, and I went together. I walked through the doorway and stopped. It was like I’d walked into a wall. That bandaged person laying on the bed couldn’t be Jim. It didn’t even look like him, really. All those bandages. And you could tell. He wasn’t in there any more. His body was breathing, but Jim was no longer in residence. The nurse asked if I was his sister. No. Cousin. Michael and I went to Jim’s bed, stood there, and said our goodbyes. Just the word. It was all either of us could verbalize. But we were glad we did, glad we went. It was important.