A year has passed since my hero died.
I bought a car. I got promoted. I married the love of my life. I started psychotherapy and switched therapists. I got a cat. I suffered a bad ear infection.
In all the things—the mundane and the extraordinary—I missed my brother. He wasn’t in the passenger seat with me in my new corolla, singing like nobody was listening. He never called and congratulated me on my new position at work. There was an empty chair for him at my wedding, one covered in yellow roses for him, but that no amount of beauty could fill. My ear hurt more from not hearing his voice than from the bacteria inflaming it.










