I had it all planned.

I was going to ask my parents to fly my brother Jason here for his 50th birthday. I’d meet him at Schiphol and get the big hug we always gave each other. I’d then joke that, in Amsterdam, two middle aged men hugging each other is quite commom place. I’d surprise him with a SIM for his iPhone to make local calls and we’d take the train back to Rotterdam.

My wife would roll her eyes in jest and joke about the travails of having “three Lillis men” in the house. My son would still be wary of this big man called Uncle Jason but he would enjoy hearing stories from Jason about misadventures in my youth. Stories I would hear many time in the future walking home from school. Stories that would start with my son’s mischievous smile and “remember when you and Uncle Jason…”

For his birthday today we’d take the train to Bastogne. I’d bring two packages of cashew nuts from Albert Heijn and we’d take selfies in front of the sign going into town. We’d then spend the day at the museum. I don’t know what questions he would have asked or what he would have liked for dinner. I wish I did.

Today is Sunday, May 9th 2021 – Jason’s 50th birthday. No-one from the US is allowed to fly into Schiphol without special permission. The kiosk for local SIMs is closed. The trains to Bastogne are canceled and the museum is closed until further notice.

And Jason is dead. He died in November of 2018. RIP Little brother: you were taken just when the world needed you and we all miss you terribly.