Peter Bellucci b. 1962

My brother Peter was one of the most complicated people I have known. On any given day, Peter was doing the best he could to connect with those around him, sometimes with blessings that only he understood, or he might recite ancient words of wisdom to those who would listen. On most days, he would greet everyone with a hearty hello before sinking into an argument with his unseen tormenters. Peter was schizophrenic. He taught us patience. I love this picture of Peter and Fred, on a warm summer day on Wilson’s Mesa outside Moab, Utah, on a mesa green with summer and tall aspens. Peter, carefree, no shirt on, a smile on his face because he and Fred had just caught trout for dinner and fetched drinking water for the night. No tormenting voices then — just the vast indigo sky and later pan-fried trout over the camp fire. I remember Peter, Fred, Wil, and I looking up at the dizzying array of stars that night, Peter pointing out the constellations to Wil who was almost 3-years-old. I remember Peter's patience and thoughtfulness with Wil’s barrage of questions. I choose to remember Pete this way.