The year anniversary looms

After a surreal day yesterday remembering that exactly this time last year, my brother came and hung out with us for Easter Sunday, I woke up this morning with an unbearable ache in my heart, unable to control my tears, thinking ‘what the fucking hell has happened?’  

Exactly a year ago, when my brother appeared at our door, I was so happy - over the moon in fact.   We ate delicious food together (he said it was the best meal he had had for a long time), we did an Easter egg hunt for my girls, we took him to our favourite woods for a walk, and most importantly for me, my brother and I talked, properly talked.  He was feeling low, but I thought that the fact he was actually opening up and talking was really encouraging.  We talked of ways to make him feel better.  I told him to keep talking to me, and that he could stay with us until he felt less bad.

This morning, I am thinking ‘this time last year he had two days left of life - he was still alive, I could have saved him - on this Monday last year he was still here - I saw him, we spoke, and he told me he was feeling brighter - he said our talk really helped.  I felt so hopeful and positive for our future.  He felt suicidal.  I should have realised he was putting on a front.  I should have stayed by his side - I should have seen through the forced smile.  If i’d known what he was about to do I would not have left his side, ever.  

I have spent the last couple of months scoffing at the idea that the year anniversary would be any different to the hell of every day since his death.  But with just a couple of days to go, I am slipping further.  I am tormented by thoughts that this time last year I could have stopped this nightmare from unfolding, from happening.  He might still be alive. 

But my brother has gone.  I can’t bring him back again.  I can’t say to him ‘come on the joke’s over, come back now, this has gone on long enough’ - which is kind of what I catch myself believing -  that I can just bring him back, that none of this is real.  But when the realisation hits, even just for a fleeting second, that I am never going to see him again, never going to hear his voice, see his face... there are no words.