For six weeks, that image of Frankie at the hospital would jump into my head, make itself at home and hand me the Kleenex. It tore at my insides, forcing its way out through guttural moans and heaving sobs.
In the last few days, I've been experiencing a different kind of pain. It hurts no more or no less, but it's just... different, now.
I just miss him, you know? I just miss my brother. I miss his presence. I miss the sound of his voice. I hate that he's not here.
There's probably a whole load of hackneyed pop-psychology at work here, but I suspect that forcing myself to articulate that night, (in appallingly banal language, nonetheless!) did indeed help me clear my head of it. Perhaps now I can get on with the business of remembering my brother when he was alive.
God, I don't like being this maudlin. It really isn't me.
0 comments so far