Sibling relationships are like no other. There is a commonality that does not exist in other relationships. When a sibling dies, the loss can be overpowering, especially, I think, when you are only 12 months apart. Your sibling is your best friend or worst annoyance, your shadow, or bigger than life. Mike and I were 12 months apart and I don’t remember the first years we shared, of course, but eventually, when my memory begins, he is like a partner—to play with, argue with, get in trouble with…. My fondest memories are when we were carefree kids, running around on the farm, going from one adventure to the next. It seems I was often rescuing him, I’d climb a tree and he’d follow, then he couldn’t get down. One time we were called in for lunch and I scampered down from the tall tree in our front yard and into the house to wash my hands and sit at the table. Then someone asked, “Where’s Mike,” and I said, “I think he’s stuck in the tree!” Another time, when I was four, I wanted to go on a grand adventure, just like on TV, so I made a handkerchief knapsack and tied it to a branch, put it over my shoulder, and took off toward the southwest corner of the farm. I crawled under a fence and a few minutes later I heard a cry. I didn’t know it, but three-year-old Mikey had followed me. I got him untangled from the fence and took him back to the house, my adventure forgotten. We did all the usual kid things, catching fire flies, riding ponies (sneaking the pony into the house, where we learned that a pony will jump up two steps in a tight entryway but will not go back down those steps!) Another lesson learned between us happened when we were about 9 and 10 and were crossing the 2nd Street bridge next to the old high school (later Fareway). Somehow one of my mittens landed on the ice below the bridge and I said to Mike, “Oh, No! We’re going to get in big trouble!” So we went to retrieve the mitten. I tested the ice to about 10 feet out and it held my weight fine, so Mike walked further out to get the mitten and fell through a thin patch of ice into the Wapsipinicon River. I was scared to death, but he was rather calm, considering he was in freezing cold water and in peril. He yelled to shore, “Get a stick!” I ran up the river bank, found a stick and ran back , throwing the stick at him, which he had to duck as it sailed over his head. He said, “You have to hold on to one end of it!” Eventually he broke off enough ice working his way toward shore and his feet could touch the bottom. We returned to our grandparents’ house about three blocks away soaking wet and in big trouble. We had many more adventures as kids: on vacations, running from a rattle snake in Florida, building a raft out of sticks and long grasses to float down the trout steam with our younger brother aboard to test it out, rescuing one of our sisters on an inner tube on the Apple River in Wisconsin, playing pranks with our babysitters, camping, hiking, exploring, inventing---we were never bored. And we always referred to our three younger siblings as “the kids” even though there were only two years between Mike and Sue, and Sue and Judy, and four between Judy and Jim. By the time we were teenagers and became very busy with sports, school organizations, jobs and boyfriends/girlfriends, the relationship changed. We were aware of each other but the shadowing days were long gone. I remember being proud of him in sports. I went to college, then he did, too, in opposite directions--I went to Iowa and he went to Upper Iowa. Then I married and moved to Colorado. Then he married and moved to the Chicago area and St. Louis area. He was a race car driver for a time, too. I had a daughter, Kristine, and then he had a daughter, Mandy, one year later. Our daughters had a lot of fun and mischief together until Mandy moved out of state. When Mike moved to Denver, Colorado, he opened and managed his own restaurant, Fast Eddy’s, and I was proud to design his menu. His restaurant was busy and immensely popular. He was an excellent cook, skills he eventually brought back to Iowa restaurants. Then Mike had a second daughter, Chelsea, only three years older than my granddaughter, Alyssa, and they became friends. Life wasn’t always easy for Mike and it was obviously much too short, but he was soft at heart, loving his daughters fiercely. He was also a pushover for his pets. His friends found him generous and fun to be with. He loved to laugh. He was a collector of many things, especially memories from our childhood. He seemed to remember so many more than I did. So, there goes part of my childhood with him. As he became more sick and frail his quiet, gentle spirit came through. And now that he is free of earthly pain and sorrow, I imagine him as the sweet boy he was as a child, only now, with angel wings.