I think your funeral killed me.
Mom and I, we said our goodbyes to you a thousand times along the way. When your blood work came back that first time. When you went on dialysis near the end. And when you sighed at 2:58 in the morning – when it was just the two of us there.
The rest of the world said goodbye a week later at the funeral parlour from hell. They expelled their grief in a white-hot glut of emotion that branded me forever as the girl with the older brother who went and died of an unpronounceable genetic disease. Thanks. Thanks for that.
When they were gone – wiping the tears from their eyes and heading back into the sunlight – it was just Mom and I, sitting on the chintz sofa staring at you in your long white box. That was when the headache started, and it was just as you described.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?