Friday will be the sixth, but he barely saw the sixth. Tomorrow is the fifth, which was Frankie's last day, but last week's fifth fell on a Wednesday - this week's Wednesday - and that's today.
So stupid, the details that we get hung up on, because they just don't matter. Fifty-two weeks ago my brother was here, and then he wasn't, so all the days just kind of became the same, didn't they? Certainly, some mattered more than others, but for the most part, the last year has consisted of days that start and end rather vaguely.
Today it hurts like it hasn't in a while, with great thuds in my chest and a need to claw the air.
Today it hurts, because it is Wednesday, and at five thirty we yelled at each other, though to be fair, I yelled first. At six thirty he said, "I can't drive. Look at me!" and I thought he was being dramatic and rolled my eyes and muffled a laugh. At seven thirty, in the middle of a memorial Mass for his uncle, my cousin had a coughing fit, and Frankie handed him a cherry flavoured Strepsils and patted his back. At eight thirty he was on the couch, uncomfortable, in pain. Dying. At eleven thirty, I said, "I'm sure it's just anxiety," and went to bed.
Four hours later, on the sixth of October, on a Thursday, he was gone, and now it's almost a year and I miss my brother and it hurts, like a hammer on my heart.
There's only so much I can say about this. I'm too selfish to spare this space the anguish, and over time, even a mourner will get tired of mourning, so God help me, I've tried to break it up a little. But Christ, when will it come naturally? When will a day be a good day, and not merely a decent day, or a bitter sweet day or just a regular goddamned day of the week?
It doesn't matter. It's not today, anyway.
Today, it just hurts.
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