So had our Uncle John lived, he would've been 39 and we'd be jamming.

He died when he was 27. We were 19 and had just dove/dived/divened into our frat years. We were full of ourselves and hellbent on showing the world just how awesome we were. We listened to Snoop Dogg and hit the 40s and macked on chicks by implementing the now-(somewhat) famous spin move.

He had recently started nursing classes and was volunteering at a hospital. He was dating a mother of three, and he'd taken the kids to see The Lion King on July 12, 1994.

Life, as they say, was good.

John had the epilepsy, which destroyed his heart. He played the piano and loved the Yes. He once gave us a tape of old Police songs. Tonight, we played So Lonely on our porch and dedicated it to him.

On this day last year, we took a one-man trek to Troy, NY to his grave. We played Dead Flowers and asked for his opinion. We prayed for him. And us. And our family. And the world.

On this day 12 years ago, we were smacked upside the head with the fact that people die, and we never really recovered because no one ever does.

We miss John, only because we think he'd be a kick-ass Uncle and friend. And because he'd be laughing. And playing the piano. And enthralled with those around him.

So there's that.