I got an email yesterday from Leigh Hopkins, whose brother Bobby (pictured) took his own life two years ago after a struggle with bipolar disorder. She wanted to share something with me that she wrote right after he died, but, she said, "I'm not a writer." I'd say she is.

The piece she sent is below. I think it's a beautiful tribute to someone who died too soon.

I sit on the shore of Lake Champlain, trembling. Lightening strikes Savage Island no more than a quarter of a mile from where I stand. Thick black clouds creep in from the north, thunder cracks, and a flock of seagulls scatter—their wings a startling white against the darkening skies. Experience tells me that very soon, the Champlain Islands will disappear behind a frothy white squall line, and the storm will be upon me.

During these many summers, one for each year of his life, my brother and I delighted in these storms. Even now I can see his brown eyes ablaze with a mixture of fear and excitement: “It’s coming! Look—it’s almost here!” The two of us would challenge each other, waiting on the shore until the air crackled with the smell of ozone, until the lake became an ocean, until the rain pelted our skin and the wind sent us squealing for cover.

My brother is gone.

Four months ago today, the ever-increasing storms that tormented his beautiful mind overtook him, and he took his own life.

I could lay out in detail how mental illness slowly robbed my brother of the life he was meant to live, but that would discredit him. What I know is that he lived more fully than anyone I’ve ever known. When he ate, he tasted every morsel, and groaned an appreciative “Oo-oof!” when his belly couldn’t hold another bite. When he listened, he listened with the whole of his heart, his eyes mirroring my own. When he engaged in a new project or idea, everyone around him became a part of the process, a part of the play. He created brilliant science, and devoured Rumi, Rilke and Kerouac.

He dreamt of great adventures.

After his death, his colleagues told me of his strange creative genius—of his delightful, yet bizarre queries: “What kind of fuel would you use if you were going to build a time machine?” “On a scale of one to 10, which is worse—a rotten baloney sandwich, or a sharp stick in the eye?” “How much of your life savings would you be willing to bet on a race between a sock puppet and a hamster?”

He made me laugh. He traveled at light speed, yet he couldn’t outrun his DNA.

And so it is.

Four months later, I stand frozen on the shore, hoping that somehow—through this small act of bravery—I might find myself closer to understanding the tempest that wrenched my beautiful brother from this earth. Somehow, by braving this storm, I might hope to understand the fine line between genius and madness, sun and storm, here and gone. If I stand long enough, perhaps I’ll see his brilliant blaze of a soul searing across the sky …

And with a mixture of fear and excitement, I face the world without him.