Echos of my brother’s words resonate between my ears, cascade down my spine, and rev up my heart to a jackhammer-like staccato beat. He only said it once, but to me – coming from the biggest influence of my childhood and young adult life – that was all he had to say.

“Live like there’s no tomorrow.”

I’m tumbling, spiraling, diving towards the earth at fifty-six miles and hour. I’m falling so fast that I can’t make sense of the images being recorded by visual cortex (I’ll sort it out later) and I’m screaming. I’m screaming so loud, actually, that the incoming wind tears at the soft tissue of my throat. In six impossibly long and incredibly quick seconds, I’m rising away from the river’s teasing torrents and I feel my stomach’s contents shift dramatically.

I make note of the canyon’s walls now; I can even see, as I look up (down?) at the bridge above me, the faces of my support group.

They’re right there with me, unlike Jim.

But I’m living, though. Just like wanted me to.

I’m living his tomorrow for him.