BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND MY BROTHER
THE YEAR SINCE HIS PASSING
Next Friday has been a year since my brother Craig passed away. Time has both raced by and slowed, creating an odd, timeless space where grief and memory intertwine. In that year, I’ve found myself holding onto the things that brought Craig and me together, and one of the strongest threads has been our shared love for Bruce Springsteen’s music.
I can’t pinpoint when Craig introduced me to the Boss, but I know it was sometime in the mid-70s. I was a teenager, and the magic of a live concert was unlike anything I had experienced before. It wasn’t just his music—it was the energy, the sense that we were part of something bigger. Craig guided me through the wonderland of 70s rock and roll, a time when legends weren’t just made but were living among us. Bruce was his hero, and he became mine, too.
Bruce’s music was a sanctuary for Craig. It went beyond the lyrics and the melodies; it was as if Springsteen’s songs spoke directly to him. As a teenager trying to navigate the struggles of growing up, the Boss’s lyrics were a lifeline, giving him hope, courage, and, most importantly, the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Even years later, when life dealt harder blows, Craig would turn to those familiar chords for comfort.
After watching the new HULU documentary Road Diary: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, I was overcome with emotion. Craig was right there with me, sharing that familiar excitement and passion. I thought about how much he would have loved the film, how he would have reveled in seeing Bruce and the E Street Band still pouring their hearts into every performance. Bruce’s dedication to his music, fans, and bandmates mirrors Craig’s devotion to the things he loved—music, family, friends, and life.
In the movie, Springsteen talks about time, the passage of years, and the inevitable losses that come with them. His reflections hit close to home, especially as he eulogized his fallen bandmates, talking about them as parts of a “spiritual body.” This phrase connects with me, resonating with my sense of loss. Craig’s passing has been a wound that, like Bruce’s music, has deepened over the years with new layers of meaning. I’ve come to understand how the people we lose remain part of us and how they shape who we are even after they’re gone.
Craig wasn’t just my brother—he was my music mentor, my guide into a world where lyrics were poetry, guitars were storytellers, and concerts were sacred experiences. Bruce’s music constantly played in the background of our lives, the soundtrack to our growing up, triumphs, and struggles. And now, a year later, those songs carry a new weight for me. They aren’t just memories of the past; they’re conversations with my brother, each lyric another chance to feel his presence.
“I'll See You in My Dreams” is a song that Bruce had written for people like me and all of us who have lost someone we loved. “The road is long and seeming without end,” he sings, and it’s true—grief is like that, an endless road that stretches out before you. But then he sings, “I’ll see you in my dreams,” it’s as if he’s offering a lifeline, a promise that death isn’t the end, just a pause. For Craig, Bruce’s songs were about finding a way through the darkness. For me, they’ve become a way to keep that light alive.
Over the last year, I’ve felt Craig’s absence countless times. There are the little moments—reaching for the phone to tell him about something exciting or hearing a song I know he would have loved. And there are the bigger moments—the anniversaries, the milestones he’s missed, the gatherings where his laughter would have filled the room. But through it all, I’ve found solace in Bruce’s music, in those familiar songs that Craig and I once shared.
Our connection through Bruce was more than just about liking the same artist. It was about understanding each other on a deeper level, about finding a shared language in those lyrics that seemed to speak directly to our souls. Craig would have loved Road Diary, not just for the music but for the way it captured the enduring spirit of Bruce and the E Street Band. It’s that same spirit that I hold onto now—the idea that music, like love and memory, transcends time’s limits.
As the year has passed, I’ve learned that grief isn’t something that fades away; it transforms. It becomes part of who you are, part of the way you see the world. And, like Bruce’s music, it reminds me that even in the face of loss, there’s still beauty, meaning, and reason to keep going. Craig taught me that. Bruce taught him that. And now, they both continue to teach me in their own ways.
This past year has been a journey—a journey of remembering, of grieving, of finding new ways to stay connected to someone I’ve lost. It’s been a year where I’ve come to understand that the people we love never really leave us. They’re there in the music we share, the moments that matter, and the memories that don’t fade. They’re in the echoes of a song, in the chorus of a crowd, in the quiet spaces between the notes.
So, as I look back on this year without Craig, I find myself grateful for the music that keeps his spirit alive and thankful for the promise that, no matter how long the road may seem, there will be a reunion somewhere down the line. “I’ll see you in my dreams,” Bruce sings, and I know Craig is out there, somewhere, singing right along.
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