John Christopher Buffington

My brother

John was my brother, but those words are too small for what he was in my life. We had always been close. I talked to him nearly every day, and the rhythm of that closeness became part of ordinary life.

Even now, I still share stupid videos with him on Messenger. Grief does strange things with habit and love. Sometimes sending something is less about expecting an answer and more about refusing to let the connection disappear.

The ordinary things matter

A person is not only the biggest events of a life. John is also the jokes, the messages, the familiar voice, the things only family understands, and all the small moments that did not seem historic until they became memories.

Stories We Still Tell

Cowboy Boots

When John was little, he had a little pair of cowboy boots that he absolutely loved. He wore them all the time, usually on the wrong feet. You could not get him to put them on correctly.

When he finally outgrew them, Granny Buff kept them. Later, she put shellac on them and used one as a pencil holder. I still have it because I knew how much he meant to her.

Shared by Jack S. Buffington

Just Give Me a Spoon

I remember one time when we were all eating at Granny Buff’s house. John was little and had a really strong Southern drawl. He asked his mama for a fork, but with his drawl, it came out sounding like “fawk.”

Everyone kept asking him to repeat what he wanted because it sounded so funny. After repeating it several times, he finally said, “Okay, just give me a spoon then.”

Shared by Janet Susie Buffington Harvey

Don’t Tell Mom

I can’t remember exactly how old we were, or how many stitches were involved, but we were playing outside in the gravel driveway at Uncle Jim and Aunt Doris’s house. You know that hill in the driveway? John went sliding down it on his head.

I went screaming after him, scared out of my mind. When he finally came to a stop, he stood up, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “Don’t tell Mom.”

I burst out laughing. He couldn’t understand why, but I told him, “You don’t have to worry about me telling her. This is something she’s definitely going to notice.” He had blood dripping down his face.

The rest is a blur of towels wrapped around his head and moderate panic. Later, when they came back from the ER, John got out of the car and shot me a glare that made me laugh all over again. They had shaved half his head, and the stitches looked like someone had installed a zipper on his scalp.

Forever after, whenever John told the story, he insisted, absolutely insisted, that I pushed him down that hill. I don’t remember doing that, but it’s possible. So I just laugh in that diabolical way that seems to come out of my face sometimes.

Shared by Carrie Johnson

Still loved, still missed

This page will keep growing. It is a place for John’s life, not only the fact of his death, and for the love that continues in the people who knew him.