I scanned the faces, searching for something—maybe they were too. Were we all here to give meaning to my brother’s death or to make sense of our own lives?
The cacophony around me was deafening—shouts clashing like thunder, an ocean of murmurs rising and falling, and an undercurrent of sorrow threatening to pull me under. I tried to focus, to drown out the noise, but the sky loomed heavy and oppressive. Though the rain had stopped, the air clung to me with lingering dampness and the fresh scent of wet-cut grass. Family and friends clung to each other for comfort, waiting for words I wasn’t sure I could deliver.
A tightness gripped my chest as I scanned the crowd, each breath a struggle. It wasn’t sorrow or regret—just the sheer enormity of the moment, the finality of it all. My sister’s smile offered a brief comfort, a moment of peace.
Something in her spirit moved my thinking—a quiet, almost imperceptible nudge touched me. Standing surrounded by faces I thought I knew, a sense of change hung in the air, just out of reach, waiting.
A few people urged me to begin, embellishing my doubt that I was the right person to deliver this eulogy and provide closure. I hadn’t cried; the sadness I expected hadn’t come. What could I contribute to this moment?
“Lam, are you ok?” The priest laid his hand on my shoulder.
“Yes, Father.”
Leslie, on the other hand, checked all the boxes. She was shattered after our brother’s passing. She couldn’t get out of bed some days, and her temper flared like never before. Mentioning “brother” or anything that reminded her of Joey would bring her to tears.
I took a deep breath to steady my voice. “We’re here to remember my brother, Joseph Portillo III, who served his country and protected others, including Senator Goldman and his family.” I started speaking of Joey as a hero, a word that had always sat uncomfortably on my tongue. “Hero.” It was a title too large, too absolute—a title I had always imagined for myself in some grand narrative, not for my brother, who had quietly worn it long before anyone thought to crown him with it. But now, in death, it belonged to him, and I was left grasping for its meaning, wondering if I’d ever measure up to that word myself.
“A hero isn’t just someone who fights battles; a hero is someone of noble character who acts with integrity, no matter the circumstances. Joey was that kind of hero. Not just because he served his country but because of the kind of person he was all the time—noble, courageous, and thoughtful.”
Don’t get me wrong. Joey could be a shit; everyone has their moments. But I could not think of them now. I hadn’t always realized it, and I certainly hadn’t appreciated him as much as I should have when he was alive. Yet, no matter how I behaved, Joey always protected, cared for, and loved me and Leslie. Though he was the youngest, we all looked up to him. He wasn’t just a brother; he was my best friend. But I wasn’t going to share all that. Some things were meant to stay between us.
