Earlier this evening my father called to tell me that my brother, Paul, had died. He was 47 and his death was an absolute shock to us all. My parents were expecting him to telephone them a couple of days ago, and after their messages were unreturned, they called the landlord of his building in Manhattan. He discovered my brother's body, and broke the sad news to my father. My brother was able to come and go as he pleased in the office where he worked, so his absence did not seem strange.

My mother and father were naturally heartbroken, but they kept a stiff upper lip on the phone. For years I remember my father saying how no person should have to bury his or her child. My grandmother is hysterical, and I must admit that I feel as if my heart has been ripped from my chest.

Paul was unlike any other member in my family. He was soft spoken, reserved and preferred his solitude. Since he was 12 years old, he knew he wanted to live in NYC and he learned the entire subway system from maps. He passed up a trip to Ireland with my other brother, an uncle and me to study for the GMATs. He scored in the top .05% and went to Columbia Business School. He had no family of his own, but maintained a strong sense of family.

I'll drive to my parents' tomorrow after mass with one of my sons. I'm going to miss him badly.