As I write, I am sitting in Fiumincino Airport in Rome waiting for my flight back to New York, but I do not want to get on that plane. I do not want to accept the reason I am going home. You’ll excuse me if this diary sounds rather incoherent.
Yesterday morning I was awaken to news that shattered my otherwise quiet life. My little brother, with whom I tirelessly worked with on last year’s campaign in Virginia and North Carolina, with whom I celebrated last year’s election victories, and with whom I have always had a close relationship that began when, at age 5, my mother sat me on the couch and placed him, as a newborn, in my arms, collapsed and died on the front stoop of the Queens home we grew up in. My father, the only person in the family who can manage a word, tells me he died at age 25 of a severe asthma attack he suffered after running home from a friend’s house. He had always had a bad asthma problem.