My brother

It’s a week since my brother died. I feel as if a piece of my heart has been torn out. This last week has been full of arrangements and sorrow. Next week is the funeral – it’s billed as a celebration of his life but he was just 61, too young, too much living to do. My mother at 89 says she should have gone first – it’s hard to disagree with her. Poignantly, my younger daughter is expecting her first baby next January, a year after the diagnosis was made of the virulent and untreatable cancer that took my brother’s life away from us. On the day he died she felt the baby kick for the first time. I’m a cynical old thing but that was a precious coincidence for me. I have been so touched by the kindness of friends, I wasn’t sure about facebooking this but it turned out to be the right thing to put the picture and the words up that reflected my mood. So many comments from lovely friends.

I’ve planned my talk and poems for next Tuesday; I’m going to be a pall bearer. What else can I do to salve this ache? Time will soften it, memories will heal – but not yet, and so my tears fall…

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