I am the keeper of my family history.
Four people, sharing a house and a life and making a family together. A father and a mother, a daughter and a son.
All gone, but for me.
But the family history remains. In my memories. On paper. As photographs, letters, tears, newspaper clippings, stories.
My father, gone aged 48. A marathon runner, teacher, tall bearded imposing gentle giant, reader of books aloud when we were children.
My mother, gone aged 43. A singer, perfectionist, book-lover, beauty, and ultimate suicide.
And last week, my brother. Gone, aged 30. A dog-lover, singer, social force, my confidant, and my only sibling.
Where once were the four of us, now there is just one.
And as I slowly clear his drawers, raise my eyebrows as his impressive stash of bear porn, read his autobiography, arrange to distribute his possessions as he wished them, and mourn, I think of them all.
I miss my dad. I miss my mum. I miss my brother.
I miss my family. But I will keep what remains safe, within me.
To all of you who sent texts, emails, and messages of condolence and love – thank you so very, very much. You helped me through an appalling week. *hugs*