John M. Dunnigan
August 12, 1990 - April 29, 2020
When we were young, I would drag John to the yard to throw the ball around.
We would play catch for an hour or two. Eventually, he would want to go inside or do something else to pass the time.
I also remember when we went biking once and a friend of ours dared John to ride down the side of the aqueduct. The path was almost vertical, from what I recall. It led straight for a boulder before making a hard left turn.
I yelled, “No! Wait!” But John did not hesitate. He rode down—facing fear head-on. When he hit the rock, he spun like a helicopter blade. I ran down the hill calling him. He lay still for a moment, then got up and dusted himself off.
During high school, in Wallkill, we went our own ways. John acted in plays. I worked and practiced lacrosse. John was so sociable—I never saw him alone. The star, no matter what role.
John’s biggest fan was our mom. She was at all of his performances. The “Mother of the Drama Club.” Still, no matter the number of “drama children” she had, she clapped the loudest when John was on stage.
While I was in college, in New York City, we lost Mom. Suddenly, John had to act alone. He was still in Wallkill then. I went up to see his last play at SUNY Ulster. He was putting on that brave face—the same one I saw during that aqueduct stunt.
Much later, in Newburgh, I went to watch a movie that John and his friends made. They had reserved a theatre and invited family and friends. There, I viewed my brother on the big screen. John was a rising star. Yet, even surrounded by people, he was partially alone—suffering the losses only he and I had known.
When the thoughts got loud, my brother explored Buddhism, Spiritualism, and martial arts to calm his mind. I believe he was searching for stability, normalcy—a way to make sense of it all.
We went to Texas for our cousin’s graduation and John stayed there to start over. Sometime after, I visited. We sat in his car under the hot Austin sun. While we were together, I felt space had grown between us. We both carried a pain that made us feel alone.
After Texas, John moved near Vegas. Then COVID came. We called and texted and saw each other on FaceTime. Still, the pain would not subside.
John passed away five years ago, and no matter what—at some point each day—I pause and think about us in that yard. I see us throwing the ball around. I imagine us playing catch—for another hour, another minute under the sun.
