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Last Friday, my brother Jerome died unexpectedly in his sleep. He was 45 years old and is survived by his wife, Sarah, and three children—Kila, Elizabeth, and Sir.
No one saw it coming.
Not his family.
Not his friends.
Not his coworkers.
And certainly not me.
I’m writing this eulogy from a hotel room in Ohio, a few days after he passed on April 10, 2026.
I’m in Dayton for a tour stop. I was supposed to spend the day with Jerome. Instead I’m here, trying to help his immediate family pick up the pieces.
Here’s how I’ll remember him…
Jerome was a strong man. To this day—and I promise this is not hyperbole—he is the strongest person I’ve ever known. Yes, he was physically tough, but I’m not talking about his muscles. Though he was only a year older than me, he always seemed like a man: stoic and nonreactive, even when we were kids. He refused to let our impoverished, dysfunctional childhood define him.
Jerome was content. The last time I saw him, he looked healthy—glowing, even. He had recently moved his family to Oxford, a picturesque college town in southwest Ohio, where he purchased a modest home and found a steady job as a chef at the university. “I love it here,” he told me on the phone last month. He sounded genuinely happy; years of financial turmoil were nearly in the rearview.
Jerome was a considerate provider. His concerns weren’t self-centered. He spent most of his free time with his kids or picking up seasonal shifts at a local factory so Sarah could be a stay-at-home mom.
Jerome was a great dad. Rarely preoccupied or distracted, he was the embodiment of right here, right now. Yesterday, when I saw his oldest daughter, Kila, a 25-year-old nursing student, she gave him a glowing review: “He never took things too seriously… He was fun and goofy and always present.”
Jerome was humble. He hated being the center of attention. When we were growing up, he was an adroit athlete (I witnessed his first slam dunk in the seventh grade), though he would downplay his skills and achievements just to keep himself out of the spotlight. It was not faux modesty; he was a paragon of humility.
Jerome was a good neighbor. He never asked for anything, but he was always there when someone needed him. If you needed a place to stay after being evicted, he had you covered. If you were in danger, he would protect you. If you neglected him, he would still love you.
Jerome was a simple man. He didn’t use social media, and he didn’t pine for material possessions or money or status, opting instead for life’s simple pleasures: fishing, cooking, music, and rocking in his favorite chair on the porch with one of his kids on his lap.
Damn it. The tears…
I love you, Jerome.
It was a gift to know you.
When I got the phone call, I could not comprehend the words being spoken: “Your brother is dead.”
According to the coroner, he died of heart failure.
And now the rest of us are living with broken hearts.
Ever since, a tsunami of grief has battered the storm doors of my mind. The first four stages arrived and recycled in rapid succession:
Denial: This can’t be happening.
Anger: He should have gone to the doctor.
Bargaining: Please take me instead.
Despair: Why, why, why, why…
I’m finding it hard to get to the fifth stage: acceptance.
I’m struggling to accept that his youngest children—Elizabeth is eight and Sir just turned one—are going to grow up without a father. Just like Jerome and me.
I’m struggling to accept that I won’t get to see his mischievous smirks again, bother him with obscure album recommendations, or pester him for not responding to texts. And I’ll never get to share these words with him in person.
I’m struggling to find meaning or goodness in any of this. The world feels cruel and broken.
But I’ll keep searching.
Perhaps his death will remind me—and others—to be more present, less selfish, more grateful, and more attentive to our health.
And I know this for certain: We must move forward. Clinging to the past pulls us out of the present. That’s what Jerome would have told us. He would’ve let us cry, but not forever. Besides, most of those tears aren’t for him anyway—they’re for his kids.
If you’d like to help, I’ve set up a GoFundMe to ease his family’s financial burden. If you have the means, a few dollars would go a long way. If not, your prayers are appreciated.
Love,
JFM
P.S. Much love to Stacy, Tracy, Teresa, Wesley, and everyone else who is grieving. I see you.
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