I wish I could cloud this up with poetry and happy memories, but the fact of the matter is that today, my heart hurts.
Today is Frankie's birthday. He would have been 26.
I'm very much a creature of habit. Mattresses get turned and toothbrush heads get replaced with the change of the seasons. Sundays are for ragout and Mondays are for brodo. Christmas Eve is for seafood and May the second is for fajitas and bowling with my cousins because it's my brother's goddamned birthday.
In the first week or so after he died, I remember having great plans for this day. Looking back, I have to wonder whether part of me believed he'd come back if we worked hard enough. I had ideas for giant birthday celebrations and fundraisers and tributes and teary smiles and fond memories and Making Something Good out of Something Bad.
Almost seven months later, and I had to seriously wonder whether it was worth it to get out of bed this morning.
I just miss him, you know? It's his birthday today. Why isn't he here for it? Where the hell did it all go wrong?
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