MANGO ESSENCE.

Today, I stood in front of his unfinished house, staring at the walls that rise like a promise never fulfilled. It’s strange how bricks and mortar can feel so heavy, even when they’re not fully formed. The silence here is overwhelming, broken only by the rustle of leaves from the mango tree—the one we buried him under. My brother is gone, and with him, so much of what could have been.

I still can’t believe he’s not here. He was our brother, the one who teased us endlessly. Now, it’s just us five. Five siblings where there used to be six. The number feels incomplete, like trying to balance on an uneven surface.

I can still hear my father’s bewildered voice from that day. "How does something like this happen?" he asked, shaking his head as if trying to wake from a bad dream. He had been standing near the casket, looking lost, his hands trembling. My father, a man who has weathered decades of life’s storms, seemed small and fragile in that moment. He kept repeating, “He was just here. Just the other day, we were talking about the house. And now…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought, just like my brother was unable to finish his plans.

He had so much more to do. This house was supposed to be his sanctuary—a place for his boys to grow up, to laugh, to dream. I can see him here, standing in the doorway with that easy smile of his, arms crossed, surveying his work. He would’ve made it beautiful. He always had a way of turning the simplest things into something extraordinary.

I remember the way he used to dream aloud about this house—how he’d have a big kitchen because he loved to cook for his boys, how the living room would be filled with their laughter, how he’d plant flowers around the yard because he believed a home should always have beauty. I can hear him, standing here, directing workers with that easy confidence of his. But instead, there’s only silence.

But now, it stands empty, like the space he left behind.

I think back to the day we buried him. The sky was too bright, as if the world didn’t understand the weight of our grief. We gathered beneath the mango tree, a tree we’d eaten from more times than we could count, its branches holding our laughter from years gone by. Now, it holds him.

I recall when they hit that final nail on the casket. Two caskets this compound carries. Three in my heart.

I remember the moment the first handful of soil fell onto his casket. It sounded so final, like a door slamming shut. I wanted to scream, to reach out and stop it, to beg for one more chance to tell him all the things I never said. But what good would it have done? He was gone, taken so suddenly that none of us had time to prepare. A headache, that’s all it was. A headache. How could something so small take someone so big?

And then there’s my father, still bewildered, still carrying the weight of losing a son. Parents aren’t supposed to bury their children; it’s a cruel reversal of the natural order. I know this too well as like him, I put my son in the soil. It is not the recommended way to be kindred spirits with your father, but such is my current state. He doesn’t say it outright, but you can see it in his eyes: a mix of sorrow, guilt, and confusion. He’s haunted by the speed of it all, by the unfairness of life’s abrupt endings.

As I stood there, looking at his house today, the weight of it all crashed over me. I thought about all the times I could have done more. Called more. Shown up more. Told him I was proud of him, that I admired the way he dreamed so fearlessly. But life got in the way, as it always does. I assumed there’d be time. We all did.

And now, I wonder: What if I’d told him to take a break when he pushed himself too hard? What if I’d been there to help him plan this house, to paint its walls, to fill it with laughter? What if I’d been a better sister?

Grief is a cruel teacher that keeps returning. It forces you to face all the ways you fell short, all the moments you missed, all the love you didn’t express because you thought there’d be another chance.

But as I stood there, running my fingers over the rough edges of his unfinished walls, I realized something. This house isn’t just a symbol of what he left behind—it’s a challenge. A reminder. My brother may be gone, but his dreams don’t have to be. His boys will grow up knowing their father was a man who dreamed big, who worked hard, who loved deeply. And maybe, one day, they’ll finish this house. Maybe they’ll fill it with the laughter he wanted for them.

The mango tree swayed gently in the wind as if it understood my thoughts. Its roots run deep, just like my brother’s impact on all of us. He’s gone, but he’s here too—in his sons’ smiles, in the stories we tell, in the mangoes that will grow from the tree that shelters him.

I left the house today with a heavy heart, but also a quiet resolve. I can’t bring him back, but I can honor him. I can live better, love harder, and show up more. For family, for friends, for myself.

To love and be with urgency. Today, today, today.

So, to Tintin, I’m sorry. For the times I wasn’t there. For the things left unsaid. But I promise you this—I will carry your spirit forward, in whatever small ways I can.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find peace under that mango tree, where you rest and where your love lingers, unfinished yet eternal.