In Memory of Brian Wilson
(June 20, 1942 – June 11, 2025)
The ocean sang through him,
not in waves, but in harmony—
surfboards and sun-kissed dreams
woven with quiet ache.
A genius too tender for the world,
he tuned sorrow into symphony,
built cathedrals from sand
and let falsettos rise
like prayers with no name.
In a room not built for daylight,
he heard angels where others heard static—
echoes of childhood,
of California
before the fall.
They called him mad,
but madness is just music
you haven’t learned to hum.
And Brian—
he hummed heaven.
He gave us youth in stereo,
grief in major keys,
fragile boys who cried through choruses,
and laughter that knew
the price of silence.
He didn’t always walk the shore,
sometimes he drifted
far from land.
But even there,
he left melodies in bottles,
washed up
in every note we now understand.
The Beach Boys wore stripes,
but he wore scars—
each one a staff line
etched across his heart.
Now the studio is quiet.
The Pet Sounds
rest.
But listen:
somewhere a refrain begins again,
soft as the hush before dawn.
And we sing,
because he showed us how:
how to hurt,
how to hope,
how to harmonize
with the breaking.
God only knows
what we’d be without him.
But thank God, through his music,
we never have to.