Poetry and prose have helped me process the shocking, gut-wrenching loss of a precious, unique, complicated person: my brother.

Steven Thomas Harvell left us too soon. But his imprint is indelible, as you’ll know from this ragged, jagged little poem. A decade without him. A lifetime to go.

Remembering Dusty Hill and how he and ZZ Top were part of my childhood.

I remember my brother now more with joy at what was than sadness about what will never be.

A footprint, a feather and a leaf, about to be swept away. Remembering my brother in a haiku.

Suicide is born of indescribable pain and causes indescribable pain. Hope is the only way to climb out of the abyss.

50-year old photographs celebrate the birthday and memory of one who left us too soon: Steven Thomas Harvell.

I have never said this in a public forum: my brother’s untimely death four years ago was a suicide. Hear my plea: if you’re hurting, please tell someone.

Two little stories about the first day of school range from joy to violent despair.