I’ve been avoiding writing here. To put words here is to put a time stamp on my pain.

A year. Peter, it’s been a year. And I hate writing this as though I were writing a letter to you because you won’t answer. Ever. It’s just me and I’m aching and I miss you and I hate the fact that you’re gone.

Mom still won’t use the D-word. It’s too hard for her. Mom and Dad talk like you’ve graduated, maybe moved on to some far off internship that has you on silent-mode. They migrate through life, moving from moment to moment. I worry about them. I check in on them daily. The iPad’s starting to be confusing to them though.

I keep editing my sentences. Writing here is so public, but it feels good to slip the words onto the screen. Acknowledge them. Delete them. Rewrite until the words are palatable.

Your death isn’t palatable. I survive it because I must. I have my own family. I have my own life. But I just keep hovering. Hurting. Like right now. The dull panging ache in my chest. The reminder that you’re just binary code and memories that keep shifting into sepia.

What’s stupid is that right after the anniversary of your death, one of my favorite eagles, Jackie, died from anemia. And I’m honestly saddened by her death. My goodness. She’s an eagle. In California. But watching her care for her eggs and then eventual hatchlings…it gave me hope. I found her right when I was spending time with you. Checking on the nest, watching the hatchlings shift from marshmallowy poofballs into sleek brown eaglets was a daily dose of fear and then laughter and hope. You were never going to improve. You were only moving each day closer to your passing. But the eaglets. Each day that they survived was a milestone.

I write your name because you matter. I write your name because once more I can hear your voice or feel the touch of your hand when you sat with me when I was laboring with my first child. I write your name because we are at the creek once more and you encouraged me to overcome my fear of everything and just live for a few seconds. I write your name because I must. I must hold onto you, brother. Because you were my brother and I’m writing about you in the past tense and it just kills me.

I know that you’d just tease me for being so maudlin. Over-dramatic is what you’d say. I’d give anything to hear that. Hear you. I have your voice on my phone. I protect that recording. I haven’t listened to it in God knows how long. I can’t. I can’t hear you in present tense and know that you’re forever in past.

I have your picture everywhere. On my bulletin board. My phone. My watch. I have your memories on my walls or the mantel in my office. I carry you with me. God, I probably sound obsessive. But it eases the quiet. For a long time, you used to call me every two weeks. I always felt guitly that you were the one to make the first phone call. I regret each time I didn’t call you. I regret that I didn’t spend more time with you.

It feels so weird that eight days after the anniversary of your death, I am finally crying. Grieving as though it’s just happened once more. I pocketed the emotion. Teacher work week was in full swing. Then school started. And I knew that I had to write here because I hadn’t in a while and I have oh so many fans. Yeah. That last part’s a joke. But still. I knew I had to write here because I had to confront and acknowledge what I was thinking and feeling. And I knew that I needed to write to you to tell you once more just how much I love you and miss you and damn it you shouldn’t have died. But you did and I can’t hold back history or my emotions.

I love you, big brother. I love you so much. God, I wish you were still here with a sound mind. I hated your cocky smile, but I’d give anything just to be in your presence once more. Oh well. That’s a genie-wish. Doomed to failure and will only result in more pain.

It’s time to close the year. Close the cycle of grief and move through the second year. I know it’s supposed to be somewhat easier. The last year really wasn’t all that awful. I took care of myself. I engaged as much as I could and gave myself rest when I needed. I lived. I endured. I wrote. I wrote a lot. About you. About other things.

I wrote a novel. And today, I finally came up with the idea for my third Louiston book. I’m going to keep on finding my way toward living with joy and enthusiasm. And when the grief settles across my shoulders, I’ll give space for that emotion too.

Say hi to Jackie for me, will you? Knowing you, you’re probably telling her that she made the nest wrong and am rearranging the sticks for her. Fortunately, she’s stubborn and doesn’t listen. She knows what she’s doing. I watched her long enough to know.