Written by Dennis Harvell
There are certain memories that return to you without warning, especially around the holidays. They don’t knock. They don’t announce themselves. They just rise up from somewhere deep, carrying a warmth and an ache you weren’t prepared to feel. This morning, one of those memories found me — a memory of my brothers, Rodney and Timothy, and a Christmas morning that still glows inside me like it happened yesterday.
I must have been eight or nine. It was still dark outside, the kind of early morning where the world is quiet and the house is still. But the room was bright — that strange, magical brightness that only fresh snowfall can create. Overnight, the Bronx had been covered in a blanket of white, and the whole block seemed to shine.
Living on the first floor meant we had easy access to the outside. And the three of us — without a word, without a plan — slipped out the door before anyone else woke up. We weren’t worried about getting caught. And even if we had been, who would have stopped us. It was Christmas. It was beautiful. And we were together.
There was something sacred about those mornings. The cold air hitting our faces. The crunch of untouched snow beneath our boots. The way the streetlights bounced off the ice and made everything look like a scene from a world far better than the one we knew. We didn’t have much, but in those moments, we had everything that mattered.
We were the three amigos. Partners in crime. Brothers who didn’t need toys or gifts to feel joy — just each other. We played, we laughed, we explored the block like it belonged to us. And for those few minutes before the world woke up, it did.
Thinking about it now brings up emotions I haven’t felt in a long time. That’s the thing about the holidays — they hold both the warmth of what we had and the weight of who we’ve lost. When you’ve lost a sibling, the season hits differently. The lights shine, but something inside you flickers. The music plays, but there’s a note missing. The world celebrates, but part of you is remembering.
I miss those mornings. I miss the simplicity. I miss the version of myself that existed only with them — the boy who didn’t have to be strong yet, who didn’t have to carry anything, who didn’t know what loss felt like. I miss the laughter we shared, the mischief, the unspoken bond that made us feel invincible.
But I hold this memory close. Not because it hurts, but because it reminds me of the love that shaped me. The brotherhood that grounded me. The joy that lived in the spaces between responsibility and survival. It reminds me that even though time has moved on, and life has taken its turns, the three of us are still connected — in snow, in memory, in spirit.
Today, I finally understood why this memory rose up the way it did.
December 23rd is the day we lost Rodney — a date my heart remembers even when my mind isn’t thinking about it. And Timothy left us on July 10th, another day that lives quietly inside me no matter how many years pass.
I think that’s why the emotions hit so hard. Why the tears came without warning. Why sharing this photo felt necessary. The holidays have a way of stirring the people we’ve loved and lost, especially the ones who shaped us before we even knew who we were becoming.
This reflection is for anyone carrying that weight. Anyone who feels the absence of someone who should still be here. Anyone who remembers the laughter, the chaos, the closeness — and feels the sting of its silence now.
May your memories bring you warmth.
May your grief find gentleness.
And may you feel, even for a moment, the presence of those you’ve loved and lost.
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