Today would have been my brother Jimmy’s 80th birthday. Jimmy was my first true love. We were 18 years apart, but we shared February birthdays, and if you can believe it, the same parents. His birthday fell on Washington’s Birthday, back when George Washington had a day all to himself, before someone bundled it into Presidents’ Day.

For years, I heard how much Jimmy loved sharing his birthday with our first president. He especially loved the tradition of a coconut cake crowned with a single cherry in the center, marking the day in his own sweet, ceremonial way.

He left me when I was 6 years old, and it was for another woman. That’s when he had the audacity to get married.

No worries, I made my feelings crystal clear in church that day, grabbing onto the tails of his tuxedo and throwing the very best fit a heartbroken five-year-old could manage.

I say he was my first love for many reasons. For one, he loved my sister and me unconditionally. I’m not exaggerating; in his eyes, we could do no wrong.

Before “the other woman” came along, he took us everywhere, even on dates. Church carnivals, the circus, sledding hills, his workplace, if Jimmy was there, so were we.

He worked a shift that had him sleeping late, or trying to. That never stopped us. My sister and I would sneak into his room with rollers and barrettes, stifling giggles while we decorated his hair. He’d pretend to sleep through it all, patient and saintly.

Jimmy made me an Auntie when I was just eight years old. If you ever want to feel judged, show your second-grade nun a photo of your brand-new nephew. I can still see her face. I’m fairly certain she gasped.

His wife, my sister-in-law, wasn’t nearly as much fun as the dates had been. The dates thought we hung the moon. They proved it with little gifts and extra attention.

I have two vivid memories of her. Once, she patiently taught us how to make tissue paper flowers on her big bed. The other time, she committed the unforgivable act of eating the ears off my chocolate Easter rabbit. My sister witnessed the amputation and immediately hid her own basket in the closet.

Some things a child simply does not recover from.

Fast forward to 2005, when Jimmy was told he needed a heart transplant. It makes sense — after pouring out that much love over a lifetime, his own heart was simply worn out.

Then one day, Jimmy decided he didn’t want to move forward with the procedure. In the room next to him was a young man with a newborn baby. Jimmy couldn’t bear the thought of receiving a heart before him.

He told us he had lived his life. He had raised his children and held his grandchildren. That young father, he said, was just getting started.

The medical team asked him again and again to be sure he understood. They told him he likely wouldn’t live more than a year without the transplant.

Well… they were wrong.

Jimmy lived the rest of his life in bliss — with a dash of ignorance. He did what he wanted. He ate what he wanted. He squeezed every drop out of every single day. And instead of one year, he gave us three — three full, unapologetic years on his terms.

Today, my sisters and I are thinking about him. We’re laughing at the blizzard outside because Jimmy would have absolutely loved the drama of it all — probably convinced it was arranged in his honor.

He moved through life without worry, without apology, without overthinking a single thing.

Unlike his sisters.

So today, in his honor, we’re trying to do the same, to live just a little more freely, to not give a shit about the small stuff, at least for the next twenty-four hours.

Let the snow fall.

Who cares.

Happy 80th Birthday, Jimmy! I still LOVE you ❤️

He died in 2008 at the age of 62, the very same age I just celebrated. Somehow, it feels like a sacred milestone. Like I’ve stepped into a year he never got to see… and I intend to live it the way he would have. Well, I’ll do my best.

Enjoy The Ride!