A bit of therapeutic writing on a difficult day. |
It's his birthday today 9 February 2006 He should be 41 but instead is forever 30. I didn't phone him this day eleven years ago. I did try shortly after but there was no answer. I didn't call again. 22 days later he was dead. Strangers instinctively recognise pain. I spent four hours at the airport an endless time. I felt them watching not staring, but caring. He was in the dark when I saw him. They should have left the light on. They give you a brochure a coffin catalogue. I didn't know that. Grief is visual for me. Flashing images of contorted faces. Not demons or death masks. Much worse than that loved one's features twisted with pain, anguish, torture and then the sympathetic eyes, forced smiles. The visions are still there. Lurking, waiting for unguarded moments to attack. It doesn't pass but it does diminish. The devastation, the raw emotion they remain but the impact is less forceful. The hole never closes. That jagged void of pain. But in time, the ragged edges soften and the abyss begins to fill up with memories. Memories which you can smile with, not just cry. Turning 30 was bad! It wasn't meant to be. How can you be older than your elder? But it didn't matter I'm 35 now and still his kid sister. That'll never change. Eleven years. As one an eternity and mere flicker in time. My brother, my wonderful big brother. It's his birthday today you know! |