I thought one day I’d be able to make sense of death and the toll it takes

I don’t remember much about Nicholas. He was born when I was four, and I only knew him for two years. My memory of most of my early childhood plays like a videotape that’s been rewound one too many times – mostly static and impossible to make out. I remember his favorite color (pink) and the superhero he wanted to be like (The Incredible Hulk).

I remember the time my family went to the beach and Nicky cried because he didn’t want to get wet. I can picture his blonde hair and his innocent smile. Most importantly, I recall we got along very well.

We lost him 13 years ago this month. One day, as I packed up to leave my first grade classroom, my teacher pulled me aside and told me the bus would be dropping me off at a friend’s house; hanging out with friends was always fun, so I didn’t think much of it. When I arrived at the house, my friend’s mother handed me a phone and told me that someone needed to talk to me.

My mother was on the other end, and she explained that she’d been in a car accident with Nicky, who had been sleeping in the backseat. She told me Nicky was very hurt, and that he’d have to spend some time at the hospital. I visited him, met the friendly doctors who’d be helping him, and wished he would wake up so we could all go home and play in the backyard.

A few days after the accident, I was told Nicky wouldn’t be coming home. I didn’t understand any of this in the moment, and I used to think it was because I was too young to grasp the enormity of what had happened. I thought one day, I’d be able to make sense of death and the toll it takes. I was wrong.

No matter how mature I become, no matter how long the gap between myself and my childhood stretches, nothing about my brother’s death will ever make sense. But it did help me understand something vital, something we should all remember as we move through life: the chance to know someone is absolutely invaluable.

So why am I telling you this? Because I’m not unique. I’m not the only one who didn’t get the chance to know another, not the only person who’s dealt with grief. We all have, and we all will. You will lose people – to death, to a breakup, to any number of inexplicable circumstances – and you’ll know how sadness breaks you, what happiness is worth.

More than anything else, I’m not the only one who’s had trouble appreciating what they have and who they know. You might hate your friend for going with another group to that party. Maybe you abhor that your family is voting differently than you are this election, and perhaps your girlfriend or boyfriend doesn’t compliment you as much as you’d like. At least you can talk to them about these things, at least you possess the means to know people.

Take those chances. Ask someone what their favorite color is, find out who their heroes are. We spend so much time in college looking for bridges to burn, for the perfect opportunity to wittily respond to supposed disrespect. Trust me, you don’t have time to put people on blast. Don’t get me wrong, it won’t always be perfect, and neither you nor I will always remember the message I’m getting at here. But, if you truly want to honor those who are no longer in your life, make sure you stand by those who remain.