Today is the one-year anniversary of the brother’s passing. For the last couple of days, I’ve been contemplating what I want to write on this blog. Of course, all the clichés and metaphors come to mind, which I guess is natural because many do a good job of conveying the ache you feel, in your heart, when you lose someone you love so much.
A year, a simple 365 days from the day we laid him to rest. Here’s what I have to say:
It sucks. Each and every day without my brother sucks.
When he was alive, we didn’t spend every moment together. But every moment, consciously or unconsciously, I knew he was there. I know. I know. He’s somewhere, watching down on me. And I do talk to him pretty often. The one sidedness of this air-to-alternate-realm communication leaves a lot to be desired. I would prefer communicating through Verizon, text or talk. Either would do.
For instance, an incident occurred when my mom and I drove to Philadelphia to pick up Emily from college. If you don’t know my mom, let me explain. If anything weird is going to happen—it happens to her. While sitting at the rest stop table, she bit into a hotdog. Suddenly, her eyes bulged and her face turned white. As I did the Heimlich maneuver on her, only one thought filled my head. I have to call Don. He’s not going to believe this one.
That’s the thing about losing someone you love, whether it’s a spouse, parent or friend. You are left behind still committed to what has become one-half of a relationship. A relationship that you most desperately don’t want to let go. So, I will continue talking to my brother and imagine his smile when I tell him something good. When Kerry and the kids walk into my house, I will always see him towing up the rear, wearing a baseball hat in the summer and a goofy knitted cap in the winter.
A year has passed. Honestly, my heart hurts as much as it did on February 5, 2014.