Thinking back on my little brother, Michael Flash, always brings a mix of emotions. I can still vividly recall the scene: him behind the wheel of my 2001 Honda Civic, a dirt road stretching out before us near College Station, Texas.
He was only 8 years old, the same age I was when Grandpa let me take a spin in his old blue Caddy. Even though Grandpa had passed a few years prior, his spirit was right there with us that night.
Michael wasn’t just a sibling; he was my sidekick, my buddy. He called me “Bubba.”
I helped raise him, from changing his diapers to playing with him at places like Discovery Zone as a toddler to building model rockets and hiking as he got older.
Despite his struggles with reading, he had this innate understanding of people and the world around him. He might not have been your typical book-smart kid, but his emotional intelligence was off the charts.
He had this infectious energy that could light up a room, always eager for the next adventure. I’ll never forget the time he asked me for a “burst of speed” in the Civic the first night he drove. It made me laugh, especially knowing how much grief our dad, Larry, could give us.
Larry had a way of sucking the joy out of life, but Michael had a knack for finding the silver lining, like when he called him “Miss Boppity Boo” in response to one of his grumpy lectures. The lecture was likely for doing something kid-like, running or being too loud, he was 5.
I laughed out loud. Growing up in our tumultuous family wasn’t easy, with Larry’s temper and all the drama, but Michael was my anchor. He brought laughter and joy into our lives, even when things felt bleak. The “Miss Boppity Boo” moniker stuck and was a private source of laughter for years. Kept Larry in perspective.
But everything changed on that devastating day in 2011 when his own mom, Anne Michelle Flash, tragically ended his life. It shattered me, leaving a void that can never be filled. She was relatively sane before she met Larry. I believe they both had a role in his demise.
I am not blameless for his death either. I fault my actions for not seeing the danger he was in with the “lunatic fringe,” as in-laws and my support group referred to that nuclear family. I had the time and resources to remove him from that home and bring him into mine. I was 31 and he was 16 when it started getting scarier and weirder there.
Because of the guilt and the grief, it has taken me years to find the right, truthful words to honor Michael properly. But as time passed, I knew I had to share his story, to show the world the remarkable person he was. He did not deserve to die. He did not bring this on himself. He had a lot to offer the world and we are all at a loss because he is not here with us living his very best life.
I miss him every day, especially when November rolls around and memories come flooding back. Back when he was just a boy, this song by Guy Clark reminded me of him. It always will:
The CapeEight years old with a floursack cape
Tied all around his neck
He climbed up on the garage
Figurin’ what the heck
He screwed his courage up so tight
The whole thing came unwound
He got a runnin’ start and bless his heart
He headed for the groundHe’s one of those who knows that life
Is just a leap of faith
Spread your arms and hold your breath
Always trust your cape
Michael McRoberts Flash wasn’t just any boy or any young man; he was a force to be reckoned with, a kid who dreamed big and wore a grocery sack as a cape without a care in the world. A young man with a good heart and a gifted mind who did the best he could in horrid circumstances.
I find solace in knowing that his spirit lives on in all of us who loved him. Rest easy, Michael Flash. You’ll always be with me. I will always have to wonder who you would have become. I have no doubt it would have been someone amazing.
David W. Flash 