Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break. - William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Maybe, William, but maybe a heart broken isn’t all bad.
I’m one of three given to my parents. Two of us remain and one lives forever.
Today, here, he would have aged to 39. I was 5 years old when he left this life, three years his younger. I often speculate life uninterrupted; to be fully sandwiched between siblings, not just in thought, dream and memory but in aging days shared. Heated arguments burning selfish, fights against each other proving strength and stubbornness, fights alongside each other ending those set to prove themselves against one of us, long days lost in the woods, dares given and challenges accepted, our younger sister’s boyfriends enduring the intimidation of both not one of us; in life together, pocketed and adorned jointly.
A sadness crawls still aging in his stead. Hearts broken, mended and torn open again in days aging.
I know my family still grieves today in every one of its passings. And now so do my daughters in their own terrible way of losing their mother.
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