Tuesday, February 16, 2016


Nothing good ever follows the statement "things couldn't get worse". I learned that in spades the day we buried my brother.

My heart ripped in half by the loss of my twin. Grief was a living throbbing pain. Son of a BITCH, it hurt to breathe. I sank to my knees beside the grave and considered tunneling in.‎

The bizarre thing was we'd never been particularly close. We didn't have a secret twin language, finish each other's sentences or have similar tastes. We didn't even live ‎in the same country.

Our parents Split when we were twelve years old, on the cusp of puberty. Naturally, they decided they should each take on of us to be raised by the same gender parent.  Of course, they swapped kids for two weeks every summer. My brother and I barely knew each other.

Not much changed when we grew up, moved out and forged lives of our own.  We met up every summer for two weeks with the parents and got to know each other as much as possible. It was a bit like a science experiment.

He was an engineer. I was a pharmacist. There was so little for us to talk about.


Someone had shredded my heart and buried it with him.  

No matter how estranged or distant we'd become no one had the right to diss family than family.  No one had the right to kill my brother.

Except me.

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