In 1993, my parents and I endured a horror that has been visited upon millions of families across the globe – we watched helplessly as my brother Ron died of AIDS. He was only 32. It is hard to believe that over a decade passed, because all I have to do is close my eyes, and there he is – my friendly, outgoing brother who grew up to charm every person who crossed his path, travel all over the world, and embrace the joys of life to the fullest. I wish you could have known my brother. For Ron, the glass was always half-full, more than half-full, because life was always teaming with possibilities. Even after his HIV diagnosis, Ron refused to let his illness get in the way. He didn't want to miss anything! One of my favorite photos of Ron was taken at a gathering in New York City just a few weeks before he died, smiling in the midst of his many friends, the life of the party. During periods when he was very ill, Ron's unfailingly upbeat personality not only helped him to endure the days of pain and sickness with his spirit intact, but it also carried all of us – his family, friends, and caregivers – through the difficult, helpless times when we wished we could somehow do more to help him. My parents and I gratefully remember the lines of friends who came to visit Ron in the hospital during those final days, the same friends who all came to the funeral and spoke so movingly about my brother and the good times they shared. We also remember wanting to find a special and appropriate way to commemorate Ron's life, and wishing there was something we could do so that other families would be spared the unspeakable grief of losing their loved ones to this terrible disease. That's when I learned about the important work of amfAR,