Not Every Glimmer Sparkles—But They Still Shine

A memory of my brother, Charlie

I don’t know exactly how old I was when my brother Charlie died—maybe two, maybe three. You’d think I’d be too young to remember, but some memories sink in deep, down to the bones of who you are. They don’t fade with time – the kind of memory that doesn’t come with a timestamp. They don’t blur — they just live in your body, like a scar that doesn’t fade. They live quietly in the corners of your soul, waiting.

I remember the day he died.

We had just visited a neighbor house (The Grey’s) across the road from our farm. Back then, that highway felt like a big road—cars didn’t come by often, maybe every fifteen minutes or so—but it was still a road you had to respect. Charlie and I were standing at the edge, waiting to cross. We were holding hands.

Then, out of nowhere, he let go.

He ran. There was a car coming. It hit him. And it didn’t stop.

I don’t know why that driver didn’t stop. I don’t carry hate in my heart for them. But I do wish they had stopped. Just for a moment. Just long enough to see what they’d done. Just long enough to care.

It’s strange how memory works. You’d think, being so young, I wouldn’t remember. But I do. 

I remember him lying there. I remember the blood. I remember the stillness. And I remember something inside me shifting—something that never quite shifted back. 

It’s strange what our minds hold on to, especially when we’re little. I don’t remember everything, but I remember Charlie’s love. His fierce, protective, funny love. I remember how much he looked out for me. Charlie was my best friend. My big brother. My partner in mischief and in play. We were ride-or-die before I even knew what that meant. And though I only have a few memories of him, they shine in my mind with a clarity I can’t always explain.

Like the time I desperately had to pee on our walk home from another neighbor’s house. It hit me like lightning—no warning, no time to plan. Charlie didn’t miss a beat. He scooped me up, carried me on his back, and ran all the way home. We lived on acres of farmland. Looking back, I probably could’ve just gone in the orchard, but to Charlie, that wasn’t an option. He ran me home because that’s what big brothers do.

And then there’s the memory that always makes me smile: my mother doing laundry, and Charlie and I stranded in our parents’ master bedroom with nothing to wear. Our parents were land and house rich but not much money, and laundry day meant we quite literally had nothing clean to put on. So there we were—two bare-naked kids giggling and playing, waiting for clothes to dry on the line, blissfully unaware of the simplicity of it all. Strange memory, maybe—but it’s one of my favorites.

Another one: our eldest brother’s wedding. I don’t remember much about the event, just that Charlie had a Sprite and I had a Fanta. We didn’t get soda often, so it felt like such a treat. I remember taking a sip and the bubbles rushing up my nose and burning—but I loved it. I loved it because Charlie was there, smiling with his Sprite.

There aren’t a lot of memories, but the ones I have… they mean everything. These memories don’t fit neatly into the soft, glowing idea of a “glimmer.” They are jagged and bittersweet. But still, they shine. And maybe that’s what makes them glimmers in their own way—because even the painful ones remind me of love. Of laughter. Of a bond that time and tragedy couldn’t erase.

I’ve never written about Charlie before. I wasn’t sure how. I wasn’t sure if I should. But something about writing these days, about allowing these stories to come through me—it opened a door. Maybe these memories have just been waiting for me to let them breathe.

So here they are. Unpolished. Unfiltered. Grief and sweetness all tangled together.

Charlie, I hope you knew how much I loved you. How much I still do. You’ve never stopped being my big brother. Not once.

This isn’t a glimmer in the traditional sense. But maybe that’s the thing—sometimes glimmers aren’t shiny or soft. Sometimes they come wrapped in heartache, in childhood confusion, in long-held grief. And yet, they still light something within us.

Even now.

Even always.

– The Wallflower