It’s raining today, which is absolutely fitting for my mood on the unofficial last day of summer. I don’t recall ever feeling summer end with such finality. Even as someone who hated returning to school—I can still feel the dread that crept in my heart as the first day drew closer—it wasn’t so much the end of summer, but the start of school that was the problem.

This summer started off with great joy—a new pool! Something I had wanted for so, so long. I texted photos to my friends. I told my brother I was a capitalist pig, installing my pool and buying first class airline tickets to see him. He assured me I was not and said he was happy I got my pool and could travel comfortably. We have so many texts from before July—jokes, stories, rants, photos, doctor updates. Then July came along—the month of Gary’s birth—and summer changed precipitously. There was hope for a new treatment at the start, and none by the 12th. By the 18th, he transitioned. Remembering it makes me breathless. The speed of it all. It’s so destabilizing.

I returned home just before the start of August. I canceled a pool party I had planned for my friends from work. I used the pool for exercise more than relaxation. I started spending less time in the pool. When the air is cool, the water feels cool, too, and I must have a low tolerance for cold water. There were fewer scorching hot days that made me excited to get in. A week ago, I went to clear the filter basket and inside was a dead mouse. It startled me—having an above ground pool means we don’t deal with animals finding their way in the water. But this mouse did. I had planned to get in the pool after clearing the filter, but I couldn’t make myself get in. As a germaphobe, all I could think of was the mouse soup I’d be swimming in. I cried off and on all day—wept and wept. Spence didn’t understand why I was so bothered by a dead mouse, but it felt more symbolic to me. This notion of joy being polluted, tainted by death. Summer—where the pool was my refuge while I processed my brother’s situation—ending and this poor, dead mouse being a manifestation of it all…fouling the very water I had found sanctuary.

And, of course, Gary is gone. Even typing those words now makes me cry. We had so much hope. And now I know last Christmas was our last one together. New Year’s was our last one together. Our hikes and meals and movies and books and conversations—they were the last.

I thought pretty seriously about shaving my head as a sort of symbolic, cathartic, visual mourning. I watched videos of women doing it; researched how long it would take for hair to grow back (my ultimate plan is to let my hair grow all one length, but with an undercut to grow out, I thought it might also make sense to shave it all and start fresh). I pulled my hair tight away from my face to get an idea of what it might look like. I slept on it and cried and cried. Was relieved when I woke up the next day and hadn’t shaved my head. Went to my stylist who assured me she could help me grow out my undercut without shaving all my hair off. It would take years to grow back to the length it is now. But it’s nice to know that shaving my head is always an option.

Instead I wondered what I could better do to honor Gary’s life? How can I best represent him and our parents in the world? While I was attending an event earlier this week, I briefly thought about sneaking out early, knowing no one would notice, but it occurred to me then that one way to honor Gary’s life would be to fully put myself into the world. He doesn’t get to be in the world anymore, so I need to fully embrace the opportunities around me to put myself out there more often, talk to strangers, go to events, be in the world. Enjoy it. Enjoy people. Don’t sneak out of events.

During one of our visits in Tucson, Gary and I were walking around a park near his apartment, watching people play pickleball. We were trying to understand what the balls were like—tennis balls? Wiffle balls? As we were walking around the courts, one of the players was leaving and Gary stopped and asked him. He gave us one of the balls to hold and when I told him I was interested in learning to play, he told us to keep it and gave us directions for a place that gave lessons. When we left, Gary said it was so cool that the guy was friendly and gave us one of his pickleballs that I could learn the game with. This curiosity and openness—carrying it with me, letting it move me, reminding me to laugh and find joy, be joy—that is a way to honor Gary and our parents.

I know the grief will ease even as it never leaves. It will shape shift and overwhelm me at different and surprising times. But the feeling of this summer, filled with great delight and hope, and then sudden, awful grief, is imprinted on me. For better or worse, I will always be able to recall it.