one year ago my brother killed himself.
and just last week, in a sunny spot in the back yard, i curled up in his hug.
my brother, a viking by genes, had thick, long arms, his hug was big and sure.

was it the twenty second or the twenty third? november? december?
i'm not a woman of dates. it doesn't matter, it was a differnt day in different places in the world.
i am a woman of colours, of smells and temperatures. it felt like night when i heard he died. i ran
outside right after and was surprised at the day light; i was surprised the day was still day and
the trees were still trees and the dogs still dogs and the wind still wind.

many years ago my mother's brother killed himself.
when she had heard the news, she tells me, she screamed, without words, for a few long minutes.
i'm not a woman of screams, i'm not a woman of words; i cried when my brother died, i still cry.
i now cry for my mother too, i know now how she felt when her brother committed suicide.
she now cries for me, for now she knows how i felt when i lost my boy.

if i had any religious inclinations, would it be different?
would it seem less random? would it seem to have some purpose?
some people tell me, he's with god. i know their kindness, i know their beliefs, but it's quite meaningless
to me, having no such faith.

i achingly miss him.
living in different countries, seperated by many hours and seas, our contact wasn't a daily affair.
now, after not hearing from him for so long, his absence is massive and intangible at once.
i have not a single thing left from him; memories aren't him, his photos, irritatingly, aren't him, his writings aren't him,
his paintings aren't him, only he is him.
i listen to jacque brel to be with him, i listen to brahms to be with him, i'm reading a book dedicated to him,
i walk with him to be with him, i tell him things, i laugh with him, i hug him back and he is gone.
i go ahead and live my days, and the days cooperate and move me from one to another.
inertia is a relentless power, it will keep you moving on, no matter how much you hope it wouldn't.

my brother, he once jumped through glass to save my life, and with bleeding arms clutched and carried me out of danger;
he's written beautiful letters to me; he's cooked poetic dishes for me; he's done some elaborately crazy things just to make me laugh;
he's chosen flowers to bring me by how good they smelled.

i miss hearing his name.
i have changed my last name to his first, so i can hear it being called sometimes. i had no doubt about it, i woke up one night and knew
i had to do it. my mother named her son after her brother; she felt it was the only name she could bear giving him. she says it was a strong urge and she just had to do it.
i felt that urge, and having no child to name after him, i now carry his name.

i had never lived in a worldless him, he was there when i was born, and i never considered
getting through life without him.
strange how lonely it feels.

my brother was born on a sunny day and died in the rain;
what a rain, said my brother,
what a brother, said the rain.