“Call Michael.” 

I would shout that command toward my phone often as I was driving to work each morning. Seemed like a good time to talk with my oldest brother for a few minutes. If he answered, we would. 

Over the past year or so, as he battled cancer, I wanted to check in, see how he was doing and offer encouragement. He was the kind of man who would not really say how things were but put up a good front. He hid his pain. He wasn’t going to say he was struggling even if he was. Instead, he said he was well and feeling good.

He was busy in Sun City, Ariz., where he lived with his wife. He continued operating his own business, drove long distances to visit family in Colorado Springs, Spokane and Seattle, and loved walking their two dogs. 

My wife and I visited them twice. On our last one in February, Michael rose at 4 a.m. to drive me 40 miles to the starting line of the Mesa Marathon, drove home, then returned to watch me finish. 

Michael was the kind of person I referred to as crazy beautiful. The man was brilliant. His IQ must have been off the charts. Attended law school. Sold real estate. Developed his own advertising business. Ventured into designs on coffee mugs. Created greeting cards.  

He loved to write. He would write all night, penning stories of his childhood, of his struggles, of his hopes. His vision, creativity and originality were beyond anything my simple mind could understand.  

More than anything, he loved being with family. His smile and laughter filled the house. He could hug, look you in the eye and say, “I love you” with such passion that you knew he meant it. They weren’t just words.  

Whenever family got together, we played Hearts, a card game, well into the night and into the early morning, while listening to his favorite song, “Gentle On My Mind.” They were joyous, wonderful times.

When we were younger, Michael and I didn’t do much together because he was a few years older. But we battled often on the basketball court outside our home when our father, brother Mark and more friends gathered on Sundays. Michael was bigger, faster, stronger and a better shot. I hated him for it.

The 1975 World Series was the pinnacle of our childhood rivalry when my hero, Pete Rose, and the Cincinnati Reds faced his hero, Carl Yastrzemski, and the Boston Red Sox. My Reds won in arguably the greatest World Series ever. Pete was the MVP and Yaz flew out to center with two outs in the ninth of game seven to end it.

Michael accepted the defeat well. 

As the years passed, like most, our lives took different paths. We started families and careers and moved often. We lived hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles apart. 

For a time, he lived in Montesano, Wash., in a large, older home with a massive yard he and his wife bought. When it came time for them to sell it, I organized a cleanup and sisters, brothers, nephews, nieces and in-laws showed up on a rainy Saturday morning to mow, rake, weed and haul. 

Before we drove the 400 miles home, I got Michael to pose in front of his house for a picture. He stood strong and tall, hands in pockets, with a proud smile. He was happy, and it was one of the few times I felt I had done something good for another person.

Just a few days before his death, I called Michael. He didn't answer, so I left a short message, urging him to hang in there. Moments later, he called back. HIs voice was weak and faint. We spoke for less than a minute. 

I knew then he was not going to recover. The miracle I had been praying for was not going to happen. But I was thankful he used what little strength he had left to call me one last time. It was a gift I will always carry with me.

Michael was working on a book. It was about kindness, about the importance of being kind and the impact it could have not just on those close to you, but the world. He dreamed of a world where people were simply kind. Like I said, he was crazy beautiful.

I thought of Michael as I was driving home from work the other day. Out of habit, I shouted at my phone: “Call Michael.” 

After a few rings, his voice came on. 

“Hi. This is Mike at Jewelry Ads That Work. Please leave a message and I will call you soon.” 

What the hell, might as well.

“Michael! It’s your brother! Just calling to say I love you. I miss you man.” 

Sounds crazy, leaving a message like that.

But Michael would understand.

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Pres. He can be reached at [email protected].