Fifty five years ago today my brother was born. He was the third (and final) child in the family. He was the only boy and being the only boy and the youngest of us he had us all under his spell.
There are photos of him as a cheeky five year old, a serious eight year old pretending to read a book for a staged photo, a teenager with his tiny granny against the wall of the house, a handsome man of twenty leaning on a stage lamp in the local polytechnic before a gig.
No more photos of him after he was twenty one. Life stopped then for him and we were left to move forwards without him.
Today it hurts and I think it’s the realisation that it’s just too long since I saw him and that dreadful feeling of never seeing him again. That’s the thing that I got and accepted quite early on but it still comes back and hits me in the back of the head from time to time.
I’ve had a very silent day today. I’ve only spoken to family, I’ve avoided people and Patrick has been in and out of my thoughts all day. I realise as I write this I have thought only of his life and nothing of his death which is how I wanted to be because after all, if we spend our lives wringing our hands and wailing at the injustice of the early death of a beloved person, we are not living at all.