When my brother died… I had never felt such despair in my life. He was so young and so silly and so much a mystery to me in the last few years.
He was handsome and funny and selfish and a bad chooser of women.
The fact that he got so sick and died so suddenly and unexpectedly was terrifying and sad all at once.
I am glad that I was there with my mother and father and sisters. And I’m glad I went there and talked to him and I hope he heard me.
I hope he heard me tell him everyday that I loved him and that I’d be back tomorrow.
I hope he knew we were all there. Hope is all I have now.
While it brought my sisters and I closer to each other, as grief will do, I have a hard time believing he isn’t here any more.
I look at his picture and think “well, I’m looking at him so he can’t be dead!”. It’s like I’ve made up some weird logic in my head to justify him being gone from us.
I washed and kept some of shirts he had for his business. Just T-shirts but with his logo on them. I didn’t take anything or nor did I want anything else. I let the girls take what my mom wanted them to have.
I want my brother back.
I wasn’t a very good sister I tell myself. Or maybe I was. I should have called more, spent more time nagging him… but he was a 40 year old man he certainly didn’t want me hanging around telling him what to do anymore.
Or did he? I’ll never know.
So now I can I make it up to him by going to see him every chance I get?
Looking at a marble slab with his name on it isn’t the same and doesn’t make me feel better, but will it eventually?
I doubt it.
But I’ll be there every month, bringing stories and scores and telling that wall how much I loved my brother and how much I miss him.
It’s not the same, but it’s all I have besides memories.
