Three weeks today since I’ve written here.

My baby brother died.  He died on Christmas Eve.  “Awww”, you say.  And the guilt comes at the final acceptance that I dare to make it about me.  Yet it is about me…again.  It is still and always about me.

Hank is gone.  That is, his physical presence is gone from this particular life.  His spirit is alive and well; I have no doubts; we’ve talked.

I could eulogize him here.  I could tell you about his childlike sweetness and total lack of guile.  I could tell you how much I wish I’d called him every time I was in his town and didn’t.  I could tell you how I wish I’d listened better when he spoke.  I could tell you how I wish I’d made more effort to invite him to my home.

Or I could tell you about our conversations since Christmas Eve.   I could tell you just and only what I want you to hear… the nice stuff.  I could choose to just tell you the nice stuff.

It has been my habit, by cultural and parental training, to just talk about nice stuff. ..until I either explode at someone inappropriately or just hide so no one sees me angry, hurt, sad, lost, in pain…mostly I hide.

Today I am out of my hidey-hole bringing the anger, sadness, loss, and pain with me.  I bring these very real emotions to the light of day.  I bring them to you the reader not to be fixed, but to be acknowledged.   Like the cat bringing her kill for you to see.  She isn’t asking you to change the state of the dead bird.   She is sharing with you her ‘catness’.   I am sharing with you my humanness.

That’s all.  And it is enough.