I have been single for 13 years. When I crawl into bed at night, I crawl in alone. Of course, one of my dogs sleeps at the foot of the bed and the other sleeps on the floor, too old to climb up. I have a Queen-sized bed, and I have to admit, I enjoy the extra room. No fighting for covers. No being awoken by snoring. No stinky-breath kisses in the morning. That’s the way it goes.

Thirty seven years have passed since my older brother Tony was killed in a motorcycle wreck. I’ve heard that a person’s grief is defined by how much they loved the person. I still think about my brother every single day, and although I don’t cry any more on his birthday, May 1, or on the day he died, May 3, sometimes my grief returns without notice.

Recently, I was cleaning my art room and came across my and Tony’s baby books. Since our mother left when I was six months old and Tony was three, the “books” are only a few pages. I had looked through mine before, but to my surprise, I had no memory of ever looking through Tony’s.

I stopped organizing for a few moments to peruse Tony’s baby book. In my mother’s perfect block printing, I read about his milestones: pushing himself up on his chest, rolling over, fake coughing. There was his first word, “Uh-oh,” crawling, somehow getting a stick of butter and eating half of it. There was his first birthday, and his second, and the birth of his baby sister. Hey! That’s me.

What I read next moved me to tears and messed with my head for days afterward. It also explained why, after almost four decades, I still mourn his loss. My mother wrote, “Little Tony loves his new baby sister, almost too much. He insists on sleeping in her crib with her.” If that isn’t the definition of precious, I don’t know what is.

My brother Tony and I shared a bed for the first several years of my life. It was out of necessity I always thought. Being a single parent and running a business, my father had to watch every dime. When I told people my brother and I shared a bed, I often said it’s because we were broke. Our mattress, which lay on the floor, was a hand-me-down from our grandmother, and it was damaged. One of my uncles jumped on the bed and squashed the mattress in the middle.

Sharing a bed with my brother until I was about seven made it difficult for me, for years, to sleep alone. Even my younger brother, who was seven years younger than me, slept in my bed sometimes. Perhaps it’s why I always “needed” a boyfriend when I was in my 20s–just to have someone there. However, after two failed marriages and widowhood, I have learned to rely on myself.

Sometimes I wonder if I am looking for the unconditional love I could only get from my brother, which has far not worked out. Tony never judged me. And two days before he died, he told me that he loved me, that I was the most important woman in his life. Surprised and embarrassed by his openness, I looked at my tie-dyed Keds and mumbled “I love you too.”

My brother’s death taught me that we are never guaranteed another day. Another chance to say I love you. Another chance for a long lovely hug. We need to appreciate people while they are alive. That was a tough lesson for an 18 year old. But I am grateful for that lesson. Tony’s death forced me to grow up even if I thought I wasn’t ready to.

Every time I talk to my three kids, I finish with an “I love you.” They reciprocate. They know their mother. And every time I leave the house, I turn to my dogs and say “I love you.” They tilt their heads as if to ask “What, Momma?” I kiss them on the muzzle. Sacrifice reading or playing Best Fiends to give them pets when they place their paw on my arm. It’s not too much to ask, is it? To cherish what we have. There might not be another chance.