He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother

John my brother, he has always been the quiet strength in my life. When I was young, the world around me often felt loud and uncertain, but John was steady. He never needed many words—just his presence was enough. With strong hands and calm eyes, he could settle things without making a fuss. He fixed what needed fixing, never asked too many questions, and always seemed to know when silence was more comforting than advice.

When I was about twelve, he took me to get my first puppy. Her name was Sheeba, a black and white corgi, and she became the centre of my little world. I still remember bringing her home—how happy Mum and Dad were with our new fur baby. At the time, John was living with our uncles, John and Bob, in grandads house. John already had a dog of his own: Judy, a white whippet with a heart full of love. Those small moments meant the world to me.

In the very early 1970s, John worked as a driver for a spring works company. He’d go out in a big box van , sometimes with Brenda and little Steven my nephew, and now and then, they’d take me along too. I was around twelve to fourteen, and to me, those road trips felt like little adventures. They even took me camping once—though I’ll be honest, I wasn’t exactly built for the outdoors. Sleeping in a tent with insects? Oh no, not for me. I was more of a pillow-and-cosy-bed kind of girl.

I loved staying over at John and Brenda’s during those years. From twelve to sixteen, their house was a kind of refuge. Brenda made things feel easy, calm, and safe, even when life outside those walls wasn’t. She had a way of being there for everyone. We all rang her for advice, and she never let anyone feel alone.

Both John and Brenda were always there as I grew up—not just for me, but for everyone. Brenda’s family too. Their door was always open, their kettle always on. If someone needed help, they stepped in without hesitation. It wasn’t a show of kindness—it was just who they were.

John’s children are now grown, and he has grandchildren as well. So, he isn’t alone. But he is broken without Brenda—his true love, and the only love of his life.

Brenda died 15th February 2025, and since then something shifted in John. He doesn’t say much but the grief sits in his voice, in the way he pauses, in the heaviness behind simple words.

Brenda left a hole no one can fill, not for him and not for the rest of us. I find it hard to accept she’s gone. Sometimes, even now, I feel like I might just pick up the phone and hear her voice again.

Me and John ring each other nearly every day now. We don’t always say much, but we don’t need to. Just checking in, just being there—that’s what we’ve always done. Love doesn’t disappear. It adapts, it settles, it finds quieter ways to show itself.

John’s always been the one to hold everyone else together. Even now, he’s still offering the cup of tea, still saying “I’m alright,” even when he’s not. He watched my children grow up, just like I watched his. We’ve been there for each other, quietly, steadily, through all of life’s changes.

There are things I never told him. I never said what I was going through in my abusive marriage, I never let him know about the worst of it. Maybe I thought I was protecting him. He would have gone mad if he had known. Maybe I didn’t know how to say the words. he was still there—even without knowing, he gave me a kind of safety no one else did.

If I could give anything back to him, it would be joy. I’d wrap it in as much love as he needs to make it through this sadness. He’s never asks for much. He never would. So he deserves peace, and a little light in his life, after all he and Brenda carried everyone else over the years.

He doesn’t need words to know how loved he is, but I’ll say them anyway, because sometimes love doesn’t shout. Sometimes, it just stays. It holds on, year after year, decade after decade.

I love you, John, more than you will ever know.❤️