I wrote about my brother Tony in my first book, Laundrygate. Here’s what I understand now, thirty-five years later.
1988
My apartment on St. James, Brooklyn. Tony told me he had HIV. He was 26 — a funeral director. He’d had an accident while embalming. That’s how he contracted it. He died in 1990.
First it was shock. Then panic. And then I had to pull together, so I could be the source of his comfort.
But here’s the thing about my brother. It was shocking to him too, at first. And then he took action. He did everything he could to feel good, to try to get better. He didn’t waste his time thinking about it. He acted.
That was the shift — the thing that made me stop. When you’re left with so little time, it’s how you use it.
And Tony used it in so many incredible ways. Giving back. Being with family and friends. Taking in as much as he possibly could. That was his nature. He cared deeply.
He was a little younger than me. But in the short time he had, he grew wiser. And he taught me to see more.