A small, black leather wallet. Used, worn and carrying the scent of the jeans my brother used to wear.
A plectrum, faded by the many songs he played on his bass guitar.
Memories. Too many to fill my mind at once.
Love. Too deep to ever forget he was my brother.
Photographs. Me receiving a kiss from him at 4. Another one, his arm around me in the back garden in Belgium. His joking around, warm and catchy like a summer’s breeze in Ireland. His broad smile standing at U2’s recording studios in Dublin.
How does a mother ever get over the death of her firstborn?
How does his only sister deal with his legacy, his children?
I do not want him gone, I need him here.
His voice a forgotten memory.
I cannot recall his voice.
His treatment for a tumour in his brain on the day I heard I had a 99% chance of having MS. Our brains acting out on the same side of our faces, almost the same symptoms I had. My illness with me forever; his treated and gone that day. The wheel of fortune favoured him that day, and I am still glad it did.
We never fought. We never answered each other’s comments by slamming doors or walking away.
We talked, but not enough.
His love and joy for his children… no man sweeter than my brother. The tears when my niece arrived, the twinkle in his eye when his son was born.
Grief, a tear in my mind when others talk about their brother.
A hug I cannot feel anymore. A future we will not share anymore. There is a silence I cannot place, memories that are beginning to fade.
The silence he leaves behind, follows me in places in Ireland I know he would have loved, he would want to return to time after time.
Will I ever see him again?
Will I ever hear his voice again?
I must, but I cannot recall his voice
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