Last Friday, my brother Jerome died suddenly in his sleep. He was 45 years old and is survived by his wife, Sara, and three children—Kila, Elizabeth and Sir.
No one saw it coming.
Not his family.
Not his friends.
Not their co-workers.
And certainly not me.
I am writing this announcement from a hotel room in Ohio, a few days after his death on April 10, 2026.
i’m in dayton on a tour stop. I was supposed to spend the day with my brother. Instead I’m here, trying to help his immediate family pick up the pieces.
Here’s how I’ll miss him…
Jerome was a strong man. To this day—and I promise this is no exaggeration—he is the strongest person I have ever known. Yes, he was physically strong, but I’m not talking about his muscles. Although he was only a year older than me, he seemed like a man: stoic and unmoved, even when we were children. He refused to let our poor and dysfunctional childhood define him.
Jerome was satisfied. The last time I saw him, he looked healthy—shiny, balanced. He had just moved his family to Oxford, a beautiful college town in southwestern Ohio, where he bought a small house and found a steady job as a university cook. “I love it here,” he told me on the phone last month. He sounded really happy; the years of financial turmoil were almost behind us.
Jerome was a thoughtful provider. His concern was not selfish. She spent most of her free time with her children or taking seasonal shifts at a local factory so Sarah could be a stay-at-home mom.
Jerome was a great father. Rarely busy or distracted, he was the epitome ofright here, right now. Yesterday, when I saw his oldest daughter, Kila, a sharp 25-year-old nursing student, she gave Dad a glowing Yelp review: “He didn’t take things too seriously…
Jerome was humble. He hated being the center of attention. When we were growing up, he was a brilliant athlete (I witnessed his first slam dunks in the seventh grade), although he played down his skills and achievements to keep himself out of the spotlight. It was not a false modesty; he was a paragon of humility.
Jerome was a good neighbor. He never asked for anything, but he was always there when he needed him. If you needed a place to live after being fired, he had you covered. If you were in danger, he would protect you. If you ignore him, he still loves you.
Jerome was a simple man. He didn’t use social media, and he didn’t seek material things or money or position, choosing instead the simple pleasures of life: fishing, cooking, music, and rocking in his favorite chair on the porch with one of his children on his lap.
Hey go away. Tears…
I love you, Jerome.
It was a gift to know you.
When I received the call, I did not understand the words that were said: “Your brother is dead.”
According to the coroner, he died of a heart attack.
And now some of us live with broken hearts.
Since then, a tsunami of grief has hit the storm doors of my mind. The first four categories arrived and were recycled in quick succession:
Disclaimer: This cannot happen.
Anger: He should have gone to the doctor.
Negotiation: Please replace me.
Trust: Why, why, why, why…
I find it hard to get to the fifth stage: acceptance.
I find it hard to accept that her young children—Elizabeth is eight and Sir is just a year old—will grow up without a father. Like me and Jerome.
I’m having a hard time accepting that I’ll never see her sneer again, pester her with vague album recommendations, or pester her for not answering texts. And I will never get to share these words with him in person.
I struggle to find meaning or beauty in any of this. The world feels cruel and broken.
But I will keep searching.
Perhaps his death will remind me—and others—to be more present, less selfish, more grateful, and more mindful of our health.
And I know this for sure: We must move forward. Holding on to the past takes us out of the present. That’s what Jerome would tell us. He would let us cry, but not forever. (Besides, most of my tears are not for her—they are for her children.)
If you would like to helpI set up a GoFundMe to ease the financial burden on his family. If you have the means, a few dollars can go a long way. If not, your prayers are appreciated.
love,
JFM
PS Much love to Stacy, Tracy, Teresa, Wesley, Kijuan, and all the others who are grieving. I see you.