The facts.

I’ve seen my brother once in the last two years, at my sister’s wedding.  As we stood for photographs in the sunshine and the flowers and the heartbreak, I wondered if that would be the last one of us all together.

He wrote me a letter from a rehab a few days ago, and before I had a chance to even write him back, he had left.

I lay in bed some nights, imagining what it is that will kill him, and what it will do to us.

—-

The feelings.

I pity him.

I’m angry at him.

I’m scared for him.

I miss him.

repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat

—-

The fears.

He’ll die in a hospital bed, after a lifetime of regrets, like my uncle David.

The image of my parents with silver hair, and gently bent backs, and wrinkled faces, and not a worldly possession left to care for themselves.

That we haven’t seen the darkest days yet.

That saying it aloud hurts him and hurts my family.

That saying it aloud doesn’t make any difference at all.

—-

God help him. Help us.

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