Reflections of Death

No Help For That
There is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest
times
we will know it
we will know it
more than
ever
There is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and we will wait
and
wait
in that space
-Charles Bukowski
   
   I am currently writing a story about death and it has brought up some memories I, in a way, wish it had never brought back up to the surface. My brother died when I was nine years old, on August 3, 1996, more than sixteen years ago. But, even through that amount of time, I have never gotten over it. I laugh and I live and I go about my days, but I profoundly miss my brother. I recently took flowers to his grave, and as I placed them over  the headstone, I wondered what his life would be like, had he survived. I wonder if he would be proud of me, or disgusted. Sometimes I think the latter, but I always fell the former. Sixteen years is a relatively lengthy amount of time to be separated from someone you care about. He's like a ghost that refuses to let go, my memories of him faded, but somehow through the fuzz of years, more powerful, especially when I am confronted with an emotional trigger. I miss his laugh, his voice, his face, from my life, no picture can ever do justice to a living being. The fuzz of years, although it can bring a memory back powerful enough to leave me staggering, is so dazing, because I don't remember anything about him. There was a time in my life when I was taking stuffed bears to my class because I missed him, when he joined the army reserves when I was in second grade. When he came back, I was super excited and happy to see my long departed brother. Now I feel like that little boy again, crying into his stuffed bear on occasion and waiting for a brother, that will never return, because it's impossible. I would gladly give my life away, just to see again for an indistinguishable amount of time just to hear his voice again.