6-1-16

It’s 1:04pm when I write this from bed, staring at my ceiling as I contemplate the past year. A year ago today was Rob’s funeral. In comparison, this year I’m much happier: at 1:04pm I’m still in bed, lazing around before I spend the day with my best friend. Not burying my brother, and drinking far too much port.

But a year later, I’m staring at my ceiling, battling the overwhelming emptiness that encapsulates every day, desperately searching for the right words to remember my brother with for today. And it strikes me, not for the first time, that with all of the friends and none of the port, I’m still struggling to find any words that haven’t already been said in a multitude of cliches. Maybe continuing to write about him at all is now futile and overdone. Maybe, a year after we laid his body to rest, its finally time to lay to rest the words we (or maybe just I) regurgitate at every momentous occasion.

 

But I refuse to do this. At every anniversary, birthday, for every special day. I repeat, over and over, even when I have no words left to say:

Remember him. Remember him today, don’t let this day go past unnoticed. On his birthday, on christmas, on the day he passed away, today. Remember him always, just how you want yourself to be remembered.

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