Timothy, The Waiting Horizon

Written by Dennis Harvell, Photograph Timothy Harvell

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Grief bends us toward memory,
but horizons remind us of what endures.

The Loss

These past years still feel strange, never returning to the normal I once knew growing up. My brother is gone.

Grief takes up all the space you give it—the loss of a sibling is a unique, primal pain. It sits deep, reshaping family dynamics, and yet remains indescribable. The grief is wild; it strikes in countless ways.

Tim was private, often distant from the rest of us. At times, it felt as if he wasn’t there at all. The streets became his family, while we were just people he knew in passing.

People often say it’s time to move on, to close the chapter. But even after many years, so much remains unsaid. Speaking about grief is difficult. Death makes others uncomfortable; they often don’t know how to show empathy or what to say.

Of all the condolences I received, the one that stayed with me came from my boss: she said she was deeply sorry for my enormous loss. Her words validated my grief in a way that hundreds of “sorry for your loss” never could.

The Day

I remember the day as if it were yesterday—a beautiful July summer, perfect weather: warm but not humid. I had just started a new job and was thrilled to finally be working at the company I had long hoped for.

Then the phone rang. My mother’s voice on the other end said, “Dennis, he finally did it.” I asked, “What are you talking about?” She replied, “He killed himself. Your brother, Tim. You need to come to the house.”

For a brief moment, I was in disbelief—stunned and shocked. My boss overheard part of the conversation and came out to check on me. She asked, “Den, are you OK? What’s wrong?” I sat there dazed, unable to process what I had just heard.

I left work, caught the train to the Bronx, and felt an intense pain in my chest, as if I were having a panic attack. When I arrived at the house, my siblings and mother sat in silence, the air heavy with shock.

My mother explained that Tim had been out with friends, running across rooftops. He missed a jump, struck a window ledge, and fell into the alley below. I listened in disbelief—it didn’t sound like Tim. I wondered if there had been foul play, if he had been pushed, or if he had slipped.

Later, I went with my mother and brother Rodney to the morgue to identify Tim’s body. That image still lives with me—Tim lying there as if asleep. My mother showed unimaginable strength, not shedding a tear. Rodney, however, broke down, and I had to turn away to keep from crying in front of them.

Carrying On

My mother carried on as if everything were normal, more concerned about us than herself. She worried about me being alone, though she never knew that each night I went home, I cried uncontrollably in private.

I arranged the funeral so my mother wouldn’t have to endure the pain of planning it. I picked out Tim’s suit, finalized the viewing details, and made sure everyone knew when to come.

On the day of the viewing, my mother, Rodney, and I walked together toward the funeral home. Suddenly, she collapsed to the ground, screaming, “My baby, my baby, he’s dead, my baby…” The sound is one I will never forget. We held her up, crying ourselves, but she refused to move, wanting to stay in that spot.

Memories

One of my fondest memories of Tim was a fishing trip with Rodney and me. We woke up early, packed our things, and realized we had no money. So we tried selling newspapers—New York Posts for twenty-five cents each—hoping to earn enough for City Island. But a police car pulled up, confiscated the papers, and put us in the back seat. We never made that trip, though they let us go since we were underage and harmless. It was just one of many adventures we shared.

I often wonder what life would be like if Tim were here today. My only regret is that we didn’t spend more time together growing up. Though distance grew between us later, the love never disappeared—it was simply shown differently.

Legacy

Sadly, Tim never saw his beautiful daughter grow into the smart, kind, and loving woman she is today, nor did he witness the birth of his grandson. Yet I know he is watching over them, guiding them, sending his love—until we meet again.

I am not very religious, but I consider myself spiritual. People often say I will see him again in heaven, that he is with God. I appreciate the sentiment, but it is not comforting—heaven feels so far away, and for the rest of us, the distance remains.

And yet, even in loss, Tim’s presence lingers. In our memories, in his daughter, in the bond we all carry forward—his love remains close.