DAY 99 - MY BROTHER RAY

99.

MY BROTHER RAY

I was twenty-six when my brother died, driving

the car he loved, a small topaz orange Triumph Spitfire,

on a perfect May evening, my third wedding anniversary.

A station wagon crashed into his tiny sports car.

Closest to me in age, just 13 months younger,

named after our father, the one Mother loved best.

Small and wiry, while the rest of us were tall, 

his eyes blue like mine.

When my brothers came to tell me,

it was almost morning

and he'd only been dead a few hours.

Dead, my brother, impossible.

I don't know what words they used.

I just remember standing all smashed together 

in the hallway of my tiny apartment,

the three of us wrapped in a single embrace,

clutching and sobbing.

I'll never forget the gut-wrenching pain.

Until that moment,

I had not 

understood 

what

loss

was 

about.

*comments welcome