DAMMIT!!! GAHHHHHH. *kicking holes in the wall*

I don’t even remember when I last saw my brother before he died. I don’t remember where we were — probably my folks’ house — or what we talked about or how long we visited. I just flat don’t remember. I can’t picture him, what he wore. I’d say it’s been about two months since then, whenever it was, and that’s just too damn long.

I know where he is: he’s here, but also on the other side. (Don’t ask me to explain. I just know.) I know how he is: he’s fine, probably great. I don’t feel guilt, I don’t feel anger, I don’t feel much regret. I feel a lot of gratitude for many things, which I’ve outlined in previous posts. I still enjoy things… my family, my friends, my work.

But dammit I miss that guy.

I want to look into his warm hazel eyes, see the shine in his growing-out hair, be pulled into that comfy brotherly hug he had for everybody. I want to bitch and complain with him about the state of things in this country. I want to see him throw his head back and emit a joyous burst of laughter at something Zoey did or something Stewie said or some asinine thing some politician is in trouble for. I want to talk to him about life and love and death, and make sure he is still my brother wherever he is. (I worry a lot about that.) I want him to come see me in my dreams, so I can do all this, even if it isn’t physically real. I want to know if, when I feel a light chill down my arms, or I feel that odd sense of electricity nearby, if that’s really him or if it’s my own imagination and lonely wishful thinking.

I want to stop envisioning him lying in the hospital, tangled in a nest of wires and tubes and monitors and beeping and flashing boxes. I want to stop remembering touching his hands, his arms, his legs, running my right hand through his hair and talking to him. Not because these memories disturb me — they don’t, not really. I’m so certain that he knows I was there and knows what I said and knows how much I will always love him, and I’m grateful I had a little time alone with him. He didn’t look scary to me… he looked like himself, so handsome. I just am tired of seeing that, over and over, because it’s so real, and because he was so much more than that memory.

When I remember him in the hospital, that feels real — but when I remember him at any other time or in any other place, even when I look at pictures, it feels made up, a life dreamed up by a graphic artist with a lot of Photoshop talent. I want him to be real again. God, I miss him so much right now. Mikey, I love you. Please come see me.

Note: No walls were injured in the writing of this post.

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