I miss my brother. Miss Peter and his taunting voice. His soft hands. His wisecracks and wisdom.

I miss the slim nuances of his smile. His eagerness for adventure. His keenness to explore. Boundaries were meant to be stepped upon and over.

He abides by no prepositions.

I miss the sharpness in his voice. His astuteness. His ability to cypher beyond my ill-hidden subtleties.

I miss him holding my hand when I prayed for peace. For redemption. For family and togetherness.

I miss his quiet understanding when I started sobbing when we passed a dead fawn stretched beside the roadway and I was terrified about aspects of life and loss. I miss his silent empathy. I miss his quiet knowing.

I miss the softness of his hands on my hips the last two times I hugged him. A pliant gentleness. A pair of graceful arches. Parentheses closing around the words I could not say.

I said, “I love you.”

Each time, what I was really saying, “Good bye” in case this was the last moment.

The hourglass kept emptying. I thought it was still partially full.

I was never going to be ready for the silence stretched over the hospital bed in the office in his house where I used to admire his pewter dragon collection. Or his daughter’s sketch of a chickadee. The figments and fragments of his life.

Just atoms and particles lingering in the floorboards.

He existed.

He lived.

And I lived beside him and behind him and with him and by him.

And I was defined by prepositions anchored to concrete objects.

Just as I am still lingering here. Watching the stars. Talking to the sky. Writing poetry and words and lyrics in his honor.