Condolences

• 

  12/19/2025

  Michele Harrell

  T-15 — Friday Caesar, today is Friday. Before you left, Friday was my fullest day— the kind that carried weight and purpose. I spent the daylight hours teaching Medical-Surgical Nursing and Pharmacology, speaking into the futures of nurses who will one day steady hands, read monitors, and save lives they have not yet met. By evening, I took care of patients whose problems had names, whose pain could be managed, whose outcomes— while not always perfect— were still possible. I wish this Friday was like that. But today was different. Today moved slowly, as if time itself was tired. I drifted through photographs— the ones your friends posted, the ones you left behind on your feed, the ones family has carried quietly for years. Each picture felt like a door opening and closing at the same time. We searched for you to build your memorial— trying to tell a whole life in slides and seconds, trying to choose which smile the world should remember first. Today was sad because I knew the night would be quiet. No late-hour call. No sudden "hi." No familiar voice checking in when the world slows and honesty comes easier. That knowing settled heavy. Today I went back to the funeral home to make another payment. And something in me shifted. I am no longer afraid of graveyards. I used to drive past funeral homes without glancing sideways— eyes forward, heart guarded, as if looking too long might invite death closer. But now— because you are there— I walk the hallways freely. I stand on the grounds without fear. I breathe where others rest. Ger, death no longer scares me. It still hurts. It still offends everything I believe about fairness. But standing near you, death looks peaceful. Still. Almost gentle. Caesar, Mom is looking through your pictures— from boyhood to manhood, from laughter to quiet strength. She pauses at each one, touching the screen as if memory might answer back. She really misses you. Her love is loud, even when she is silent. Today was slow. My busiest day of the week felt emptied of urgency, as if Friday itself was honoring your absence. At noon, the wind shook the house— strong, sudden, deliberate— for nearly twenty minutes. Walls trembled. Windows answered back. Then it stopped. My dreamy mind did what it always does. It imagined meaning. It imagined you— passing through, brushing the edges of this world, letting us know you are near. Was it you, Caesar? T-15. Friday. I keep counting the days. I keep holding Mom. I keep walking forward with your name steady in my chest. Your loving baby sis, Michele.

• 

  12/19/2025

  Michele Harrell

  T-15 — Friday Caesar, today is Friday. Before you left, Friday was my fullest day— the kind that carried weight and purpose. I spent the daylight hours teaching Medical-Surgical Nursing and Pharmacology, speaking into the futures of nurses who will one day steady hands, read monitors, and save lives they have not yet met. By evening, I took care of patients whose problems had names, whose pain could be managed, whose outcomes— while not always perfect— were still possible. I wish this Friday was like that. But today was different. Today moved slowly, as if time itself was tired. I drifted through photographs— the ones your friends posted, the ones you left behind on your feed, the ones family has carried quietly for years. Each picture felt like a door opening and closing at the same time. We searched for you to build your memorial— trying to tell a whole life in slides and seconds, trying to choose which smile the world should remember first. Today was sad because I knew the night would be quiet. No late-hour call. No sudden "hi." No familiar voice checking in when the world slows and honesty comes easier. That knowing settled heavy. Today I went back to the funeral home to make another payment. And something in me shifted. I am no longer afraid of graveyards. I used to drive past funeral homes without glancing sideways— eyes forward, heart guarded, as if looking too long might invite death closer. But now— because you are there— I walk the hallways freely. I stand on the grounds without fear. I breathe where others rest. Ger, death no longer scares me. It still hurts. It still offends everything I believe about fairness. But standing near you, death looks peaceful. Still. Almost gentle. Caesar, Mom is looking through your pictures— from boyhood to manhood, from laughter to quiet strength. She pauses at each one, touching the screen as if memory might answer back. She really misses you. Her love is loud, even when she is silent. Today was slow. My busiest day of the week felt emptied of urgency, as if Friday itself was honoring your absence. At noon, the wind shook the house— strong, sudden, deliberate— for nearly twenty minutes. Walls trembled. Windows answered back. Then it stopped. My dreamy mind did what it always does. It imagined meaning. It imagined you— passing through, brushing the edges of this world, letting us know you are near. Was it you, Caesar? T-15. Friday. I keep counting the days. I keep holding Mom. I keep walking forward with your name steady in my chest. Your loving baby sis, Michele.

• 

  12/18/2025

  Michele Harrell

  T-16 — Thursday Caesar, today we begin counting toward the day we lay you to rest. Yes, it is confirmed. It is you. And still— you know how dreamy I can be. My mind tried to save me. It told stories it knew were impossible. I hoped your wallet had been stolen. I hoped the body belonged to someone else. I hoped paperwork had failed, that names had crossed, that fate had misfiled you. Even though I knew— the federal records, your biometrics held for immigration, the certainty of systems that do not make mistakes like this. I knew your identity was confirmed. For sure. And still, my mind played games. It held on to hope as if hope could reverse fact. As if walking into that room might undo what had already happened. I thought— maybe I would get there and it wouldn't be you. But it was. Before you left, Thursday belonged to structure— mandatory faculty meetings, accreditation language, curriculum maps, outcomes measured and revised. I never loved those rooms. Today, I longed for one of them. For the dull safety of agendas. For arguments that ended. For problems that could be solved. Instead, I moved through three meetings that broke time open: one to plan how the world will remember you, one to plan how we will lay you down, and one where I walked Mom and Nate into the funeral home to see you. You were lying there as if asleep. Still. Peaceful. Finished. Did you know we were there? The room held its breath. Time slowed, as if unsure how to continue without you. The funeral team is steady— hands sure, voices calm, helping us order chaos so love can stand upright. Even grief needs structure, it seems. Ger, I am walking in faith— not because it is easy, but because it is the only ground that has not collapsed beneath me. In your death, you sent me a sister. Her name is Evye. She checks on me daily. She checks on Mom. She does not force words. She simply stays. A mercy I did not ask for, arriving anyway. Your friends— they are good people. They have risen without instruction, carrying generosity in a season meant for joy. Their love testifies that you lived fully and did not pass unnoticed. Ger, it is real now. Seeing you there— still, peaceful, beyond debate, beyond narration. You— the debater, the storyteller, the man who could bend a room with words. This has taken my language. No syllabus prepared me for a Thursday like this. No metric explained how to stand when silence becomes final. So I keep time instead. Sixteen days remain until January 3, 2026— the day we will place you gently into rest. I count the days. I hold Mom. I hold faith. I do the work that remains. T-16, Caesar. Thursday. I will keep watch until burial day arrives. Your loving baby sis, Michele.

• 

  12/16/2025

  Michele Harrell

  Why Did You Go First? Ger, today I learned the language of goodbye— embalmment and burial plots, peaceful presentation and closed caskets, words I never asked to know but now carry like sacred weight. I learned that love has logistics, that grief has paperwork, zip codes, and a final suit chosen carefully in a Casual XL store where time did not stop even though my heart did. Do you remember how I feared the dead? How I hid in your arms watching the Terminator, Arnold promising he'd be back, and I believed him— because you were there, because nothing bad could touch me as long as you breathed. Now you are the one who will not come back, and I am learning how permanent that truth is. Ger, you left us brothers— men who showed up without instruction. MC, holding me from the first day, calling from Kenya, bridging oceans with loyalty. Thomas, answering every call, steady at all hours, holding both Mom and me with patience that feels like home. Real Ugali Man, walking me through your final days, telling the truth even when it broke him. Kristian Cortez, gentle strength, speaking calmly into Mom's grief. Even voices with titles, reaching back, reassuring, reminding me we are seen. And Ger— you brought Laura back to us. Our baby cousin, present, sharp, and steady. She stepped into the quiet chaos with humor that made us breathe again, with intelligence that untangled logistics, with a presence I didn't realize I had been missing so deeply. In your leaving, you reminded me that family can return when it's needed most. You expanded our family with your absence— did you know that? Today I bought your final clothes. I typed your name. Your zip code. As if the system might whisper, He's still here. As if logic could undo loss. The funeral home promised you would look peaceful for Mom. That word—peaceful— is carrying more weight than it ever should. She is tired. She is sad. She says she felt this coming since August. I didn't. I was chasing the American Dream, not knowing it would turn into a long night where your absence is the loudest sound. Ger, I took Mom to your chair at Cortez. The place where you sat, where your presence still lingers like warmth that hasn't faded. That same day, DC Mayor stood with us and took a picture there— proof that your seat is not empty, that your life mattered enough to leave an imprint on space itself. Your memorial chat is alive with you. Pictures. Songs sung in your name. Love traveling back and forth, keeping rhythm where your heartbeat once lived. They are healing me gently, without asking me to be brave. But still— why did you go first? Why are you now a story instead of a voice? A lesson instead of arms? Why am I explaining death when you were meant to explain life to me? If love could have kept you, you would still be here. If devotion could bend time, I would be small again, hiding in your arms, believing every promise. Ger, I am here. I will keep Mom standing. I will keep these brothers close. I will keep Laura near— laughing, capable, returned. I will keep speaking your name until it feels less like pain and more like prayer. Rest now. You did not leave us broken— you left us bound together. With all my love, your Baby Sis, Michele.

• 12/16/2025

  Sheena Foster

  Going to miss dear Caesar, dropped in to Cortez a little over a month ago and he was seated in his chair upfront working on his laptop and smoking a cigar. He was such a kind and generous soul. Going to miss him. -Sheena Foster

• 

  12/14/2025

  Victor kileo

  RIP Big C. It was an honor and pleasure to know you and consider you a Brother. Till next time...

• 

  12/14/2025

  George Mokuasi

  What can i say to a great man but Munakunywa sana. A man that lit up the house whenever He walked in. You gave your all brother, on and off the Rugby pitch. We have lost a Legend!!! Our song: baaa baaa black sheep, Kenya Exiles Anthem and more, all have your DNA!! Fly on brother. No one can fill the Gap: there was and always will be. One Ger Mijoro!!! Love Ugaliman Mokuasi