6

Six years ago today, my brother was driving home from work and died in a car accident. We were very, very different. Yet I knew he had my back, and I hope he knew I had his. To say that I miss him would be an understatement. It's more than missing someone, it's the feeling that there is, physically, a part of me missing. I shared with no one else that weird thing that comes from DNA and experiences and parents and all those little stupid things that feel so important yet, when he disappeared, left this hole in me. He'll never get to see how his wonderful son, who was 3 1/2 when he lost his daddy, has grown up. I'll never get to put my rumpled little first born in his big arms.
It's true that life goes on. You learn to live with that loss, to be happy, even, because you feel his presence in silly little things and big moments. But this:
"She would never, never, never be able to accept his death, and she didn't try. This wasn't an illness she would recover from; it was an amputation she had to learn to live with. There was a great and surprising peace in acknowledging this." (Pat Barker, Double vision)