The One Who Saved Us
My mother used to say that getting pregnant with my baby brother Michael saved her life.
One early morning a few months before, she’d suddenly lost her brother at 38 years old. Not just her brother, she’d say, her twin, the first person she had any memory of. Even as adults, they’d remained remarkably close, two night owls frequently chatting on the phone long after the kids had been put to bed, my dad dozing on the couch in front of some game on TV, and my aunt working the night shift as a nurse.
My uncle’s sudden death, the cause of which was never really clear, pushed Mom into a deep depression. Later, she spoke frequently about those dark days and how, for a long time, she couldn’t imagine life without her twin. Then, not long after her 39th birthday, when she’d inexplicably assumed it was no longer possible, Mom got pregnant one last time.
As she often told us later, Michael’s arrival was what snapped my mother out of the worst of the grief over her brother’s loss and helped her re-engage with life. But Michael wasn’t just a distraction from a terrible sadness. Until he was born, my mother had always felt that her family—already pretty big with a husband and four other children—seemed incomplete.
Someone was missing.
Michael was missing.
This Thursday marks the one-year anniversary since we lost Michael, a little older than my uncle (44, not 38), but still way, way too young. Like my uncle, he also died unexpectedly although, unlike my poor mother, we did eventually learn our brother’s cause of death (an accidental overdose).
Even twelve months later, it feels impossible to come to terms with the fact that Michael is missing again, that his brief sojourn as our family’s baby has come to an end. We keep searching for answers only to come up with more questions, the lamentations of the grief stricken since time immemorial:
Why him?
Why us?
Why now?
And like everyone who’s ever lost a loved one, we strive to find ways to keep his memory alive. So, today I write to remember my youngest brother, Michael Robert Minnefor:
Who we never let forget he was the youngest of five.
Who was named after two of the original Minnefor brothers.
Who climbed the bookcases and dug massive holes in the sand.
Who loved sushi and steak and (much to my chagrin) Mountain Dew.
Who held fast to his view that The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle was Bruce Springsteen’s best album no matter how many people might disagree.
Who had the gift of artistry and liked to draw.
Who trained long and hard to play the offensive line for his Morris Catholic Crusaders and Williams College Ephs but sometimes wondered if one too many “dings” on the football field contributed to his later struggles with depression.
Who adored both Hoboken and the Jersey Shore.
Who read history and studied law and quoted The Big Lebowski whenever possible.
Who was a dedicated fan of the New York Giants and the Game of Thrones.
Who doted on his wife, Valerie.
Who loved his family and friends.
Who got lost and couldn’t find his way back.
Between Covid and Michael’s struggles, I didn’t see him as frequently the last three or four years of his life, which sometimes makes it hard to remember the countless better days that came before. The walks on the Spring Lake boardwalk. The many Springsteen concerts. The long, lingering dinners at our parents’ house.
There’s a place in the town where my family vacations that sells classic soft serve ice cream—vanilla, chocolate, or a combination twist in a cone or a dish with whatever topping you want. The only “exotic” thing on the menu is a “Freezer,” soft serve of your choice mixed in a blender with your chosen toppings to create a glorious, gluttonous mixture too thick to drink with a straw but still served in a tall beverage cup. Like a Dairy Queen “Blizzard,” only better.
By long tradition, Michael and I would share a Freezer at least once every summer. Or, more accurately, I would encourage him to order a Freezer so I could have a few bites and still pretend I wasn’t eating dessert. Our eternal quest? To find the optimal combination of add ins to create the world’s best Freezer, a goal we actually achieved ten or twelve years ago and could never replicate. M&M’s or Reese’s Pieces? Marshmallow sauce or hot fudge? Sprinkles yes, gummy bears never. Fortunately, we were in complete agreement on that point even if we struggled to recreate our masterpiece.
In the weeks leading up to this sad anniversary, I kept thinking about how distressed Michael would be if he knew the extent of our sorrow over what happened. He would often tell each of us, “I love you with all my heart” and hated even the slightest upset in the family. If only for that reason—and some days, it’s ONLY for that reason—I’m trying to let go of at least some of the sorrow and focus instead on Michael’s fun-loving, generous spirit. The fun-loving, generous spirit that last August led him to send me, in what unbeknownst to me would be one of our final communications outside the family text chain, a teasing message about the latest post in what was then my very new blog. We hadn’t spoken much that summer, so until Michael’s text, I wasn’t sure he even knew about the blog.
Michael filled a hole in our family that most of us hadn’t realized was there. The caboose at the end of the train. The last of the new generation of Minnefor brothers. The baby who kept our parents young. The irreplaceable, unforgettable, beloved youngest sibling, deeply mourned, desperately missed.