Christmas Is Strange This Year

It's kind of weird. We didn't open presents on Christmas Day. We opened them on Christmas Eve and at the kitchen table instead of in the living room. Not that it's bad or anything, I understand. After everything that's happened, how can I expect my family to do what we've always done when one of us is missing?

I don't like it though. We've always been an unstoppable force, us siblings that is. I know we will never stop being that but it just feels wrong now that one is gone.

I try not to think about it because I'm tired of crying every time but I think I need to. Either write my thoughts down or do something with it. I try to distract myself.

Basically, this is just going to be a bunch of random things put down into words, things that I've been trying to keep back because I don't know how to express them.

I miss my brother. That's normal. I know. But I don't like missing him. It's like, he was never really here, but had stayed down South and worked for the holiday. For some reason, this still feels like an odd dream that I'm going to wake from, regretting everything. I kind of hope it is but I know all too well that it's not.

We have an ornament on our Christmas tree. It's a glass angel with gold fringed wings and an engraving that says in memory of my brother. It has his name but I don't really feel comfortable saying it. Maybe I'm scared to write it. I don't know.

Mom and Dad say we need to talk about him and not try to forget him but how can I do that? People ask me about something from my childhood and he always comes up because he was always there. He taught me how to ride my bike. He taught me how to play the piano. He taught me to have faith in myself and do what I love even when people may not support me or back me up. He helped me. He was the person I sat by when I rode on my first roller coaster. He held my hand on the first drop and then begged for me to stay conscious when I started to feel light headed as we were whipped this way and that. We ran through the line for that one stupid particular roaler coaster at the parks power hour just so we could ride it over and over again. At the end, I got to the point where I could ride the whole thing with my hands in the air. I never would have gotten on that thing if it hadn't had been for him.

I talked his ear off one night about my book Red Like Crimson. I kind of feel bad about never finishing it and I don't think I would ever be able to. But that's not the point. The point is, he listened when nobody else would. He talked with me about the things I loved even though he may not have been interested in or even talk about later.

We should talk about him.

I know that.

But I hate the way my throat feels when I start. I hate the way my voice cracks and my eyes start to sting. I can only fake being okay for so long.

I don't know. I'm kind of a mess right now but I know that it's okay. I'll get better soon and hopefully I'll be better when it's all done.

An old friend of the family told me at my brother's burial that it has to get worse before it can get better. It didn't really make sense at the time but it does now. I hope it doesn't get worse than this.