Seth Ferrin. My older brother.

We miss you.

I miss the times you held me and tickled me until I couldn't breathe. And you went right on tickling till I turned purple. Or the times you took my toys simply to torment me.

I miss the threats you'd issue at anyone who dared to make fun of me in 6th grade. I miss the adventures you were always undertaking that we all thought were absolutely insane. But then we realized it was just admiration. I still regret not waking up at 3 that morning to go jump off the pipe with you.

I miss your cowboy boots and your cowboy hats and your cowboy music and those hideous cowboy shirts, even though the only cows you ever laid eyes on were the ones you tried to push over.

I miss your music even though I always hated it.

I miss you taking me shooting even though you were always better than me and both you and I knew it. I miss your teasing when the big guns would almost knock me over. And when you'd pretend the recoil from your elephant-gun was nothing more than a nuisance. I saw you wincing.

I miss the random calls, the unsolicited brotherly advice that I never took but always knew I should have. I miss the dinners at your house where you'd dress me down for every stupid thing I had ever done. And I'd make fun of you for being fat and old and two-steps closer to baldness. You'd say that you could still kick my butt even with the help of a little Rogaine. I think you were right.

Maybe.

I miss you waiting for me at the airport in the middle of the night in Washington D.C. on your son's birthday because we were too poor to get another car or even a ride in a taxi.

I miss you wanting us to be closer, after so many years of being far apart.

I miss arguing about politics, the one thing I always thought I could beat you at. But, if I did, you never let on. Thanks for that.

I miss you holding my kids and looking at them in that reflective pose you had. Like 'I need some more of these.' I didn't get it then, but I do now.

I miss you doing things you weren't supposed to do. And then I would do them years later, but never had the guts to tell you. It's been three years and I'm still trying to outdo you.

I doubt I ever will.

The last email you ever sent me was a bunch of pictures from when you went diving off Hawaii on some wreck that was a good hundred feet deeper than you were certified to go. I still haven't gotten around to getting certified.

Six more months and we'll be the same age. But you'll always be my older brother.

I miss you, you big jerk.