Two days ago I lost my brother. I don’t know what to say, or how such a note of sorrow is to be written but I felt that something is to be shared.

My brother, Peter St.Onge was born 21 months before I was, so I figure he didn’t have much time to himself before I came along. Growing up he showed me the ropes on what it meant to be family, how to be polite, and how to stay out of trouble. Often times I watched as he underwent journeys that I knew I would have to soon after. He went to school, and I dreamed of my first days of class. He played soccer and I anticipated my days of running around and screaming wildly, while apparently trying to kick a ball, maybe. I watched as he somehow convinced our parents into letting him attend art school, and I realized the option was even there. He paved the way for me in many ways and while we were two very different people, we shared many things. We shared a family, a bunk-bed growing up, clothing, summers at grandma’s house, inability to do well in math class, a love for visual arts, and friends. It was our beautiful friends that brought us together on his last day with us.

Having been in the city for a large portion of the summer, it was the brief times we were both home in New Jersey that we saw each other most. On Friday night I traveled into Brooklyn to a friend’s apartment. I walked into the party and saw my backpack on the floor, and was momentarily confused as to how it got there, before I realized that he had made the trip in from New Jersey. It was great to see him as always, because when Peter St.Onge was at a party, you knew everyone was going to have fun.

We chatted, mingled with friends, and eventually had a nice brotherly heart to heart later in the evening. We talked about home, about my new apartment, and about his plans to travel. He talked about how he planned on going to New Orleans at some point, and was going to France in October. I prodded him about getting his artwork photographed by some of my friends at school, so that I could make him a website and share his talent with the world as I had promised him as a graduation present. Having met many talented artists in my life, I had no problem telling them to their face that they played second fiddle to the greatest artist I had ever met, who was my brother, at home, drawing endlessly every day, never stopping. He was truly raw talent at its most impressive, and I felt that his exposure and job should match.

I brought up that I had been thinking about how we recently lost our grandmother, Graziella Smith, who was a remarkable woman who gave so much for her family and loved everyone she ever met to no end. He and I spent most of our summers growing up at her house, swimming, drawing, going to the library and having the time of our lives. Losing her was easily the greatest loss I had ever felt, and I brought up the fact that I missed her every single day. I told him that the blue bowl I eat my cereal out of each morning, which was distinctively hers, as well as the infinite other ways which she impacted our lives was a constant reminder of her in my daily life. He agreed whole heartedly, but stopped my worries. He said that while it is true that she has passed, her memory lives on within us at all times. This was something I knew, but hadn’t really talked to anyone about. We found a good stopping point in our conversation and both re-entered the party.

Throughout the night people had been going up to the roof to smoke a cigarette or just admire the beautiful view. It was a very pretty night and after being up there for a while I decided to come back downstairs, as did many others. No huge migration, just people trickling in and out of the apartment as they pleased. Some time passed, I sat talking with friends in the kitchen, and at one point began to walk back into the living room. Just as I did that, so did two police officers from the entrance of the apartment.

While I respect police officers greatly, at the time I hadn’t been respecting certain laws dealing with underage drinking, so I decided to take my leave and exit the apartment as the two officers passed entered. I was on my way down to the front door of the building, when I realized that all exits were guarded, and that it would probably be a better idea to re-enter the party.

When I walked back in, the first thing I heard was an officer talking to the silent group of kids about someone had fallen from a considerable height, and that he was on their way to the hospital, essentially brain dead. The officer said what he was wearing, and taking one look around the room, I realized it was my brother. They were not there to break up a party; they were there to question us as part of an investigation.

I cooperated to the best of my ability, retrieving his wallet from my bag on the floor and actively sharing any information they needed to know. We waited for what seemed like an eternity for the detectives to arrive. On a Friday night in Brooklyn, their three detectives were apparently very busy. They arrived and began to question each one of us one at a time, starting with myself. About a minute in, a call went out on their radio saying that an officer had been shot in the area. They divided up and I was left with one detective asking me questions. I answered their questions and they moved on to the next group of people. I asked when it would be possible for me to leave and they essentially told me to sit tight.

I went into the stairwell with one officer, a guy that really helped me out a lot and I basically just talked at him. He was 25 years old and just doing his job. I rambled on and on about whatever it was I was thinking, and he was very calming to be able to talk with. I asked him if my parents had been notified, and he told me that since I was an adult, the choice was up to me, to let the NYPD call home, or let me do it. At one point I was mid-ramble, telling him I couldn’t believe young guys and girls like him had to go through this stuff, when he got a text message. I looked at him and asked him; “Do you know something that I don’t?” He looked up slowly and gave his condolences, and he told me that he wasn’t okay.

I double checked, I triple checked, and then I got up and lived the hardest moment of my entire life. I locked myself in the bathroom, and at 3:00am I made a call home to wake up my mother, attempting to talk through my tears. I told her that Pete and I had met up at a party, that there had been an accident, that he had fallen a considerable height, and that he was not okay. I told her that they needed to come to the city to Bellvue Hospital, and that I was so sorry.

They let us go about 30 minutes after that. I said some goodbyes and left with a friend and caught the first cab we saw back to Manhattan. We arrived to the hospital about 5 minutes before my parents and my 10 year old sister did. We sat and waited, and shortly after the doctors who had worked on him came in and gave us the news. There hadn’t been much hope, and they did a lot of desperate procedures to try and save his life.

We went to see him, and he lay there, just looking like Peter. Not horribly disfigured, not gory and covered in blood, no look of terror, no look of pain, just beautiful Peter, laying there as though he were asleep. That was the last time I saw my brother.



These things don’t happen to you. Maybe if you are one of the unfortunate ones, they do. But these are the things you hear about, and you can’t imagine happening. No one is ready for this, no one knows what to do when it happens. You just sit around, cry a lot and a bunch of people bring you food. I lost the closest person to me I’ve ever had, the brother who could finish my stories, because he was there living them along side me. He had so many people that loved him, and not a single bad word to say about anyone, let alone anyone saying one about him. People compliment me on my shoes, he gave them to me, he didn’t want them anymore. I am wearing his contact lenses because I ran out and we have the same prescription. We sound alike, we look alike, and even in the past two days I’ve been accidentally called Pete twice. I don’t regret a moment we shared, and because no one was there with him, I guess we won’t ever really know exactly how he fell. But he got me this far.

He lived a full life, of love and happiness, and found his true home and friends going off to school where he was essentially regarded as celebrity. Everyone loved him. Now he’s gone. I’ll miss him forever, and it’ll get a lot harder before it gets any better, but he was just so good, so loved, that it’s impossible to have a negative thought, to think anything other than the fact that we were all blessed to have him, and that he’s happy.

I thank my friends and family so much for their support, just seeing how loved he was, and continues to be makes it all much easier. I wanted to share this with you all, because it is so hard not knowing what happened to someone you love, and I was there with him the whole night. I thank God for that. I plan on sticking to my promise to him, and finding a way of sharing his artwork with the world. It’s incredible, and it needs to be seen. I lost my best friend, my big brother, and the chance to live out a long lifetime with him besides me, but I know he’s up there with grandma, and he’s as happy as can be. He never stopped being Peter, and he will never stop being a part of us all that were fortunate enough to know him.

Thank you all so much.

Nicholas.