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When I decided to do the year-long legacy writing project, writing about memories inspired by photos, I knew many dates and occasions would lend themselves to specific recollections: my parents’ anniversary, certain birthdays, events related to friends. As I once said to Rhonda and Lindsey, I consider these posts love letters to the people from all places and times of my life, a way to share what they meant or mean to me. In regard to my nephew Aaron, I’d already anticipated posts related to his graduation from high school next month, memories of the first time I met him, special moments we shared with my mother before her death in June of 2008, and his nineteenth birthday on December 19.

Aaron died on April 25. As I went through the painful process of sharing this news with friends, so many of them said things that will be part of my coping and healing. One such thing stands out. My friend Carreme wrote, “Please do write what you had planned for Aaron for this year. What better way to honor him.” I know she’s right. I wrote a letter to Aaron that was buried with him, and in it I said, “And I will write to you and about you many more times, as I’m sure you could have guessed.” Aaron loved hearing and reading our family stories. We all looked forward to the many he would add to our collection.

I can’t thank everyone enough for the memories or words you’ve shared with me. And I want to give any of you who wish a space and opportunity also to share your thoughts with Aaron’s parents, Lisa and my brother David, as well as Aaron’s other family and friends. Please feel free to express your condolences or to describe memories of Aaron or special moments with him in comments to this post. I will make sure your words are received by them.

Aaron was preceded in death by the two grandmothers he loved, Dorothy Baggett Cochrane and Gaylene Rogers Brown. He is survived by his mother Lisa, his father David, his sister Heather, and his brothers Daniel and Alex. He will be missed by his girlfriend Rachel; aunts Debby, Becky, Laura, Louise, Linda, Anne; his uncles Danne, Owen, and Tom; his nephews Dave and Steven; his many cousins Josh and Dalyn, Sarah and Mark, Gina and Eric, Maddison, Lexi Lee, Jamison, Jacob, and Jennie; and Cochrane family special connections Geri, Terri, Aimee, Tim, and Lynne. (If I’ve missed, mis-remembered, or misspelled anyone’s name, please comment to let me know and I’ll add or correct.) Aaron will also be missed and remembered by many friends from school, church, taekwondo, work, and the places he volunteered his time.

Some of you have asked if there are specific organizations to which you might donate in honor of Aaron’s memory.

• Among the things Aaron’s younger brother Alex spoke of in his eulogy was Aaron’s involvement with the Miracle League, an organization that gives special needs kids a chance to play baseball. Their donation address is Miracle League at Town & Country, P.O. Box 200277, Austin, TX 78720-0277.
• From the time they were young boys, Aaron and Alex volunteered at animal shelters to walk dogs. They adopted rescued dogs, including Aaron’s chihuahua. Aaron supported Ay Chihuahua Rescue. Their address for donations is Ay Chihuahua Rescue, P.O. Box 201625, Austin, TX 78720-1625.
• If you want to give to either of those organizations or to one that’s local to you, and you’d like the family to know, you can give my notification address, and I’ll make sure Aaron’s parents know. You are also welcome to send cards or letters to this address for me to pass on: Becky Cochrane, P.O. Box 131845, Houston, TX 77219.

In closing, I’d like to share the remarks my brother gave at Aaron’s funeral. Thank you to everyone who will take the time to read about this young man who means so much to our family. As I expressed to my friend David P when we talked about the special bond between children and their aunts and uncles, Aaron was the gift I didn’t know I wanted until he came. And as his cousin Gina said, “My heart will ache forever.”

Aaron in 2011, photo by Geri

From David Cochrane: This is the text of remarks I delivered at Aaron’s memorial service on May 1, 2012, at the Cedar Park, Texas, ward house of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Although under the pall of sadness, I may have made slight deviations, this is as I intended my remarks.

Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, I was in the room with your mother at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City when you came into this world.

Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, now, all too soon, we find ourselves in another room with your mother after you have left this world. Would that it were not so!

Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, Lisa and I chose the name you carried so as to remind you of both of your families.

Aaron Buchanan Cochrane, friend, cousin, nephew, uncle, brother, son, born in Utah, you lived most of your life in Texas, and you were keenly interested in your roots in the South.

When you would visit my mother Dorothy, you would pore over her decades of photos, ask many questions, hang on her stories, share her memories. Your aunts Debby and Becky have similar memories of your visits with them. Always the questions.

After my mother passed, you were able, due to the graciousness of Becky and her husband Tom, to join us at her memorial service. You stood by my side as her remains were placed with those of your Grandfather Bill at Fort McClellan in eastern Alabama.

When Cochranes gather in times of sadness, we tell stories; we always have. And always those stories become more and more outrageous. You sat with us — cousins, your aunts, your brother Daniel, your nephew David (your nephew Steven too young to make the trip), family friends, me — that night and listened to stories and laughed long and loud with us, mostly about people you’d not known, nor, in some cases, heard of.

That night, when you and I returned to our room, you began to ask questions about the people of whom we’d spoken. Thus we decided to make a pilgrimage to visit the resting places of other of your forebears. That next day we traveled to northwest Alabama to pay respects to your paternal great-grandfather and great-grandmother. We continued on to visit your second- and third-great-grandfathers. We drove to Tupelo, Mississippi, where Dorothy’s parents, the Baggetts, rest. We visited old homesteads, small towns, country cross-roads churches. You heard stories of long-gone antecedents who fought to establish this country, others who fought to rend it asunder, and still others who fought to defend it, of slave-holders and activists for equal rights. You took it all in and let it become a part of you.

And yet, of that day, what I took was the memory of you and I… a cemetery, Center Methodist Church… deep in the Alabama hills, the foot of the Appalachian Mountains far back in the piney woods… a downpour like can only happen in the Gulf coastal states began to fall. As you and I ran back toward the car, a small, soggy-sodden, bedraggled kitten was suddenly running alongside you. Somehow it knew you were its salvation. Without breaking stride, you picked it up, and into the car it went. As we sat there, the wet cat shivering, you unbuttoned your shirt, and put it inside that shirt next to you. Then you matter-of-factly announced that you were going to take it on the plane back to Texas; it could go in your carry-on. Me: “Uh, maybe we’d better call your mother.” No answer. You were determined in your plan.

Off the lone paved road, there was a dirt road down which we spied a single house. We drove to it. No one was there, but on the front porch was a small box with towels in it, a saucer of milk, and some food. You knew the kitten was home, and you were, then, willing to let go of it. For myself, I knew what you were made of, and I was proud.

On a recent visit with your Aunt Becky and Tom in Houston, you seemed happy. They noted that even though you still asked questions, you’d begun to develop your own way to tell the stories.

Only a few weeks ago, my partner Geri Mendoza and a colleague visited Austin on business. You, your mother, Geri, her colleague and her sister, all had lunch together. When you discovered that the sister was a photographer, you asked questions, then fell into a long, involved discussion on cameras and the art of photography.

As I’ve spoken with people over the last couple of days, the one theme that kept emerging is that Aaron showed none of the signs one might expect of one who took the action he did. To the contrary, he brimmed with thoughts of the future, was interested in the world around him, and displayed a sense of humor that ranged from subtle to slapstick. In short, his was not a story of a descent into hopelessness and despair, but that of a young person with all the attributes — intelligence, curiosity, interest in others — that would have allowed him to successfully go wherever he wished with his life.

That leaves us with the question, then, of why, with so much yet to do, did he choose the path he did? As we know, there is no answer, only more questions. If there is no answer, then the word “inexplicable” remains. If there is no answer, then words like “fault” or “blame” cannot apply. There is no guilt to be had, only sadness, only our shared deep sense of loss.

Aaron Buchanan Cochrane made one bad decision all too quickly, and, thus, the inexplicable and the irreversible become one. Time does not heal all wounds, but it may lessen the pain. Aaron may no longer be with us, but we’ll always have Aaron. And we will always honor and love him, just as we will continue to love and support Lisa, the mother who gave him to us.