The many years ago that I lived in New York City, I never made it to Brooklyn. I didn’t ever have a compelling reason to go there until last weekend, and I wished that I didn’t have to attend the gathering. It was different than any funeral I’ve ever been to.

Last month, my nephew, Michael, died suddenly. It took a few weeks to corral family schedules and create plans for what turned out to be a loving memorial.

I seldom get to see my nieces and nephews. It seems we only get together now for weddings and funerals – one of the challenges of a scattered family. My late brother and sister-in-law had five children. Michael was their oldest son.

Michael had moved to New York City right out of the University of Binghamton. He found his calling, and stayed, becoming a psychoanalyst, eventually teaching for the Gestalt Institute and settling in Brooklyn.

Saturday, our clan gathered from Rochester, Lake Placid, North Carolina, Annapolis, Boston and Warren. Michael’s nieces each flew in from their colleges in Pittsburgh and Cleveland. Depending on hotel availability and price, we were scattered all over Brooklyn. I had no idea the borough was so huge, filled with apartment skyscrapers and a street scene as crazy as Manhattan.

We thought for years that Michael was the perennial bachelor until he met and fell in love with the lovely Iwana, a bright young Polish emigre who now teaches biology in Brooklyn’s best high school. It was a love match. They did not have children but what they had together was a deep, abiding love, a joy to behold when they were around. I watched her greeting everyone, seemingly calm, as New York friends and professional associates conveyed their condolences.

Michael’s sisters had located a function room in a neighborhood church. With help from many of his personal and professional friends they were able to invite the many who treasured their relationship with him. The invitation was for 3 to 6 p.m. When we arrived the siblings and friends had set up the room in a unique but comfortable way. They created a huge circle of folding chairs with other rows behind. The open center of the room held candles and flowers.

Our small group of family members plus two childhood friends of Michael’s from Rochester only added up to 19. As the groups of more than a hundred New Yorkers, strangers to us, trickled in, they ultimately filled the room. Their numbers made us realize that our Michael had another life populated with relationships we did not understand. As I sat there watching the arrivals have a snack or drink, I thought that these people knew Michael in a completely different way than we, his family did. We were there for the years of his formation. These strangers knew the man. And as it turned out, he really knew them.

One man had shared an office suite for 30 years. Another knew him from the time he was a student at the institute where he ultimately taught. His professional peers spoke with the highest regard for his skills. But the bulk of attendees were Michael’s patients.

A few speakers were planned, two from the family. But when the friend acting as emcee opened the floor for comments or memories, hands went up all over the room. I’ve never witnessed that kind of heartfelt participation. They spoke reverently of him as the most important person in their lives. As many men as women said that he profoundly altered their direction. More than a handful declared simply, “He saved my life.” Or “I was on the brink, ready to go.” These grateful souls knew a Michael whom we, his family, did not know.

Many wrote memorials, some performed songs, recited their own poetry – all tributes – for a man who changed hundreds of lives over thirty-plus years. He was a rare bird who blended affection and caring with a wicked sense of humor. He left behind a small nation of dedicated admirers and friends. I watched Iwana, sitting demurely, taking in every adoring word. While holding her open palm over her heart, she glowed. She knew, she treasured, of whom they spoke.

The glassy eyes we wore throughout the tributes occasionally slid down our cheeks. Over supper, our gang told family stories filled with hoots, irreverence, and tender memories. We needed our love-hugging laughter to help absorb the impact of our loss.

They now call me the Matriarch, the last one standing of my generation. Since the clan gathers only for rituals these days, I’m counting on one of those college girls to intervene with a white veil… well before the next timely funeral.

I don’t want to be left out of that gathering because I’m there only in spirit. Or in an urn. I can wait a little bit longer before meeting up again with our beloved Michael.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com.