Obituary of Manuel Colon

The memorial ceremony will be held at Buckland Park Lodge, on Westfall Road in Brighton, NY from 3pm-9pm on Friday January 24, 2025. A 30 minute life story video will be playing, and all are welcome.

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It feels like the weight of the world is on my chest, and the words I want to say feel so small in comparison to the pain I carry. But I need to speak. I need to say something for you, even though you’re not here to hear it. I need to let this out, because I’ve been holding it inside for far too long.

I want to talk about my brother, not just the struggles that came with his battle with alcohol, but also the person he was before it all. He was more than the addiction that eventually claimed him; he was a son, a brother, a friend, and in so many ways, he was a part of all of us.

I'm here with a heart full of grief and love, as we remember and honor my brother. It’s not easy to speak of someone we’ve lost, especially when that loss comes with so much pain, so much “what if” and “if only.” But the truth is, no matter what we may feel about how he passed, we must never forget who he truly was and the love he carried in his heart.

I don’t even know where to start, because how do you sum up a life? How do you talk about someone you loved so much but also struggled to understand? My brother… you were both everything and nothing at the same time. You were a force, a person I could never quite reach, and yet someone I always believed in, no matter how far you fell.

I’m angry. I’m so angry that this is how it ended for you. I’m angry at the alcohol that slowly, piece by piece, stole you away from all of us. I’m angry at the promises you made to get better that you could never keep. And I’m angry at myself for not being able to fix it, for not having the right words or actions to make you stop, to make you see that there was still so much good in you, that you were worth saving. I hate that I feel like I failed you.

There were moments when his laughter could fill the room, moments when his kind heart would show through despite the battles he fought within. He had dreams, hopes, and a future that seemed so bright at one time. I remember times when we’d talk, and he would tell me of the things he wanted to do, the places he wanted to go, the family he wanted to build. And I know that, deep down, he wanted to be better—he wanted to be free from the chains of his addiction. But sometimes, it’s just not that simple.

But, God, I loved you so much. Even when you were caught in the grip of that darkness, even when you couldn’t remember how to love yourself, I loved you. I know we fought, I know there were times when I was so frustrated I didn’t even know how to talk to you anymore, but I always loved you. And I think deep down, no matter what was going on, you loved me too, in your own way. And maybe that’s the hardest part: knowing you couldn’t see how much you were loved, how much you mattered.

Addiction is a cruel thing. It doesn’t define the person, but it can define their life in ways that feel impossible to break free from. We all tried, we all hoped, we all prayed. But in the end, addiction doesn’t just affect the person—it affects everyone who loves them.

It’s easy to focus on the parts of his life that were taken by alcohol, but I want to take a moment to focus on the man he was outside of that. He was kind, funny and sensitive. There were so many moments of joy, of connection, that we should remember and cherish. Those are the memories that will outlive the pain.

I keep going over the memories in my mind—those moments when you were still the brother I remembered, before alcohol changed everything. The times we laughed, the times we just sat together in silence, when I could feel the weight of everything you were carrying even though you didn’t talk about it. You never opened up enough, and maybe I didn’t push enough, but I always knew something was eating you alive. You had this look in your eyes sometimes, like you were trying to fight off a storm that no one could see, but it was there. I just didn’t know how to help you. Maybe none of us did.

I know we all wish we could have done more, said more, been there more—but sometimes, the only thing we can do is love. And that’s what we did. We loved him, even when it was hard, even when we didn’t know how to help him. And I know, deep in my heart, that he felt that love, even when he couldn’t show it in return.

We may never have the answers to why addiction takes the lives of those we care about, but we can honor his memory by remembering who he truly was—the person he wanted to be, not just the illness that claimed him. He was someone we all loved, and he was a part of our lives in a way that will never be replaced. And while we grieve today, I also want us to remember that love transcends all things. It’s not defined by how long someone is with us, but by how deeply they touch our hearts, even in their absence.

You weren’t just an addict. You weren’t just that disease. You were so much more than that. But somewhere along the way, you lost your way, and I know you didn’t want it to happen. I know you didn’t want to hurt people. I know you didn’t want to be trapped. I know you wanted to fight.

I wish I could go back. I wish I could do it all over again and hold your hand through it, help you see what you were worth. But that’s not how life works. And now, all we have are the pieces. The pieces of who you were, the pieces of who we wished you could have been. And the truth is, no matter how much I love you, I can’t change what happened. All I can do now is try to make peace with it and carry you in my heart, the way I should have all along.

It’s hard to forgive you, honestly. It's hard to forgive this disease that took you away from us before we were ready. But I know you were fighting a battle every single day, even when you didn’t show it. I know that part of you wanted to be free from it, and part of you believed you could be. Maybe it’s not for me to understand fully. All I know is, I’m left here trying to figure out how to live without you.

I miss you. I miss the real you. The brother who cared, the brother who laughed, the brother who dreamed. And I’ll carry that memory with me forever. I won’t let this be the last thing people remember about you. I’ll remember you for the moments that made us smile, for the love you gave when you could, and for the promise of who you could’ve been if things had been different.

But now, all I can do is hope that you’ve found peace. Hope that, wherever you are, you’re no longer trapped. You’re free. And I’ll keep living for both of us, with your memory inside me. I’ll try to be the person you couldn’t be for yourself. I’ll fight in your honor. Your memory will live on, not in the sorrow of your struggles, but in the love and joy you gave us.

Rest now, brother. I hope you finally have the peace you were always searching for. And we’ll keep you in our hearts—always.