Today is my brother's birthday. He would have been 68 today. I'm alone in the world even remembering this. That's okay. A year and a half after his death, my thoughts are more trusting that he lived a life he chose, to the best of his ability, and what his life looks like on the outside to me is not necessarily what it felt like to him. We were very different as kids and then as adults. We had a strong emotional bond, and loved each other, but we didn't understand each other, and often judged the other. In broad strokes: I chose marriage and family and college, and he chose being single, no kids, no attachments, and no college. How much of his path was the result of addiction or mental illness, I'll never know. But clearly he needed to be a lone wolf, and I'm the wolf pack gal. Everything for me is about interconnectiveness, and he felt we are each alone in a difficult world. I may be too trusting; he was paranoid.
But right now I feel gratitude for having him as my brother, and for all the experiences and laughter we shared, as well as my certain knowledge that he, like my parents, loved me deeply. I had a sibling. We had adventures and fights and fun times. We mattered to each other. I respected his choice not to see or speak to me the last thirteen years of his life. I took care of all the details big and small when he died. I did everything with dignity and respectfully. I no longer question anything about him. He was connected directly to my heart. He still is.
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