a year

One year. I remember that day like it was yesterday. I know people say that a lot, but in this case it’s really true. It was just any ordinary Monday morning, still tired I was getting into the grind of what I knew would be a busy week at work. We were in a rush to finish and deploy a project that week which we had been working on for the last 4 months. My cell phone started ringing. Hmm, getting calls from brothers isn’t abnormal, but getting a call first thing on Monday morning is. Do I have time to talk? I look at my laptop, already with a million things open, and say sure. The brother says it’s important so if I’m busy we can talk later. I push down my laptop screen and walk away from my desk. I’m halfway down the hall when I’m told Emily had a brain aneurysm. Ok, what does that mean? I had heard of brain aneurysms but didn’t know much of anything about them at the time. My mind is racing. Is she still in the hospital? Will it take a long time to recover from? She’s not going to make it says the voice on the phone. I stop in my tracks. A chill runs down my spine. I get goose bumps from head to toe. My blood runs cold. The tears start to come. I quickly make it to a personal room. I’m asked what we should do. How do we start telling people? I can’t answer. I’m still numb with shock. Still trying to comprehend what I just heard. Maybe I misheard. I must have misheard. I didn’t mishear. I say I’ll call back in a few minutes. I’m trying to collect thoughts. Ok. I call back the brother. We should start calling people. Just start calling brothers. I start calling other alumni that know Emily. How do you tell someone this? How do you even get the words to form in your mouth? I say the words but still have trouble believing them myself. I make a second call, a third, a tenth. It’s not getting easier to say, but it’s becoming more real with each phone call. A coworker is looking for me, they need me to review something. I try to look at it, but can’t remotely think. Sorry, I need to leave. I tell another team lead I have to go, can they cover? They know the project deadline and begin to ask what’s going on, but then look in my eyes and stop short. Ok, they say. I grab my bag and quickly get out of the office. Put on my sunglasses so nobody can see my eyes. I decide to walk the few miles home rather than metro. I get closer to the Capitol. Ironically, the flag reflects how I feel. It’s at half-staff. I snap the picture below on my cell phone.


I stop by the Capitol reflecting pool. I sit down and pray for a miracle. I beg, I plead with God. I bargain. She’s only 21. She has so much in front of her. Take me instead. Please. I sit still. Nothing happens. No phone call of a miraculous recovery. I keep walking. I call more brothers. I get home. I look at pictures. I re-read Emily’s Tripod Scholarship application. I smile. I laugh. I cry.

A few days later we’re in New Jersey. Brothers from all over have made their way there. We share hugs, tears, and laughs. Each is trying to put aside their own pain to be there for someone else. This is what brotherhood means.

Time moves on. I still see Emily. She’s in the sunsets. She’s in the rainbows after a storm. She’s in the faces of brothers lending a helping hand. She’s … everywhere.

Emily, we miss you dearly, but thank you so much for everything you did in life, thanks for all of the ways you’ve made each of us grow for the better in the last year, and thanks for all of the ways you will continue to impact us as long as we live.