Today, I've been thinking of the time I got it into my head to sit with Frankie until he understood what fractions were all about. I drew a lot of pies on a lot napkins, half pies and quarter pies. I remember explaining why one eighth is one eighth, and I remember recognizing that he didn't get it when he said he got it.
I can't remember another time when I was so patient with him, because I was never bloody patient with him, but that day I was, and we plodded on until I was satisfied that he at least grasped the idea. After that, I was proud because I'd done it, that I'd taught him something, and the he'd actually wrapped his head around it.
It's three years, today, see. The fifth was his last day, and at 11:15 last night, I said to myself, three years ago right now is the last time I saw my brother alive.
It still hurts, you know. Of course it still hurts. The hurt sort of sneaks up on you now, though. Before, there was a hammering at my heart every second of every day. Now, it's sort of an insidious gloom that swirls under your good days.
You know, it's funny. I'd give anything to have my brother back right now. And in a strange way, I also really wish I'd kept those napkins.
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