Dylan Westfeldt

my half brother Wallace died the other day. measured in emotion, high and low, mostly low, the lowest, but also highs, it feels like months of moons. i haven’t felt as many highs and lows in the last decade as i have felt in the past, strong, weak week. scores and scores have spoken powerfully and eloquently about Wallace, his life, his special, lovely life, and his death, his disastrous, tremendous death. those of you who speak of him, think of him, dream of him, and believe in the things he represented help to compose and conduct his requiem.

Wallace’s death is wretched. the timing, worse…for there was much much much that this young lover, rider, son, brother, and mathematician was going to do, many that he was going to make happy. the manner of his departure, however, is poetic and perfect. he did not die in a heinous war, in a worthless car accident, in a squalid drug deal. he died on a giant mountain, under a giant sky, near his beautiful brother, Packy, in soft, big flight. i am not glorifying a reckless act, for a reckless act it was not. i am honoring a meticulous young man claimed by the mountain during a poetic act of physical expression. those who look further than this for an explanation of my brother’s death, methinks, are mistaken or uninformed as to the nature of this gentle, sophisticated young man.

he leaves behind two other men that i now know better. perfect Ben and stand-tall Packy. for these are men, not boys, and they grieve as men, not boys. i don’t know whether this makes it harder, easier, or neither. but i am aware that they are not experiencing this horror as boys. Ben, especially when he doesn’t know that you’re looking at him, observes things with a soft appreciation of an old man able to appreciate the importance of grace. he is robust, hard working, and sweet. Packy has a man’s snicker, a knowing snicker, and a generous heart. and i love the way his hair sprouts out between his goggles and ski helmet. unimaginable bereavement lies ahead, still, for these soul-shattered young men, Ben and Packy. but i also know how well-loved they are, how caring they are, how smart they are. and this is no small confluence of blessings. i also know that, by virtue of their most intimate knowledge of all things Wallace, there are few with a greater ability to – as our father weems wishes – make room for gratitude’s rightful place alongside the sorrow of the loss of Wallace, of Wally-do, Wallace UU. Wallace, Ben and Packy were forged together, by their strong mother, Nancy, dripping with love of her sons. Ben and Packy will rebuild, over time, a life in which Wallace resides in their acts, their beliefs, their choices. as Ben and Packy themselves have so astonishingly said, they are Wallace Briggs Westfeldt.

love from stephanie and dylan to ben, packy, nancy, and weems

dylan