For the better part of two decades, I wrote haphazardly. I’d go through this phase of “I’m going to write daily” and that petered (no pun intended) out pretty damn quickly.

And then I started reading The Book of Alchemy. And my brother died. And on the day he died, I started writing daily. In full context, my first journal entry was not about his death. So I must have written early in the morning becuase the day after is a narrative of his loss. My loss. That pain.

At that point, I was writing in an Italien leather journal I had purchased when I was in Rome. I loved the leaves embossed in the cover, how they twined its perimeter. And though it is a refillable journal, I didn’t know that I would ever go back to purchase more paper. Because, when I bought the journal in 2018, I was in my sporadic writing phase.

Seven years later, I finished filling that journal (I had about a quarter of it filled when Peter died) in about six weeks. I moved onto another journal and filled it as well. And then the next. Now, in full fairness, those journals were also about halfway filled.

Now I’m onto my sixth journal in about the same amount of months. Fortunately, I have at least another five empty journals sitting on my desk. I was given two for Christmas and I am so thankful for that.

This morning, I picked up my Rome-journal. It has the store’s address on it and with a quick search (the original web address is no longer working), I found my store. I found my journal. I found my refills.

I had to measure the journal to ensure that I purchased the correct refills. And when I slipped the pages from the binding, I saw that I had written “The Book of Peter” on its cover. I knew I had done that. No surprise there.

Under it, I wrote, “I miss you, brother.”

I had forgotten about that.

Even now. Six months. Eight days later. I miss him. I was praying last night and I was about to ask God to take care of my brother. And I drew in a sharp breath and edited my prayer. I asked God to bless my brother’s family. I hate calling my sister-in-law a widow. Yes, that is the correct description for her. But I hate it. It makes her apart. Separate. Outside. And I know what it’s like to be outside and I don’t want her on the other side of the fence.

I ache. I’m sitting in my office, watching traffic scroll by and I want to run away. Get in my car and run to the mountains and sit on the boulders (that are probably still covered in ice and snow) and breathe air that is not pregnant with pain. I want to dig into my memories and pull out my brother’s shadow and prop him up next to me and we’ll talk. I’ll tell him everything. About how much I still love him. How much I miss him. How I hated him when I was a teenager and how I admired him throughout my life because he was just so damn perfect. And I hated him for his perfection. But, Jesus, he really was an amazing person.

I hate the past tense. I hate that there is no present. No future tenses associated with Peter anymore. He is stuck in one-dimensional pictures that occassionally show up on my watch and I see him and I hurt and I want him back and I want to trade places and I want to publish my novel that is dedicated to him but that really doesn’t matter because he will never hold it and I ache and I hurt and I ache some more and it will never truly end. Because I will always love my brother. No matter what.

Peter inhabits so much of my writing because it is the only way I can still feel close to him. Each journal that I fill pulls me closer and farther from him. He is there. He is not. I am his sister. I am an only child. And exploring that nuanced pain makes my breathing that much more painful. And a little more solaced.

I have another four…five journals on top of my desk. Waiting to be opened and have my heart poured over them. And I am staring at the refills and wondering, do I spend the hundred dollars that will ship Italy to my American doorstep and invite me to write some more? And so I wait. I wonder. And while I do that, I will read a chapter about writing poetry. Or I’ll read some more of Wayfinder by Adam Johnson. Or I’ll build my fake Lego set. Or write in Louiston. Or write poetry.

Either way. I will live. And I will write. And when today is over, I will write some more tomorrow. Future tense.