I went for a great 10km run mid-week and took a route that I often take. It sounds a little strange but it takes me past the cemetery where my brother is buried. My passing by the cemetry gets me thinking everytime.
My brother died very suddenly when he was just 32 years old (and I was 18). Sixteen years later, the pain is still there like a dull ache just under the surface. It's definitely hard not to think about the "what ifs" and the "whys".
Soon after it happened and even now, I never got any comfort from visiting his gravesite. I find it more comforting looking to the sky (yes, it sounds juvenile, I know...), or pouring over old pictures or just thinking about past, funny things that he said or did.
He died when I admit, I was still a selfish teenager. As I ran by the cemetry the other day, I couldn't help but think about how much I've changed since that moment.... and I'd like to think he'd be proud. I think he would love my husband like a brother (both die-hard Habs fans) and I know he would adore and spoil our daugther beyond belief. I think he'd be in awe of how much I've taken to running...and I think he would teasingly call me "crazy" as any big brother really should.
Losing my brother was really difficult, and right when it happened, I instantly learned how unfair and fragile life can be. It's taken me a few years to learn to try and truly appreciate the life you have, rather than feel sorry for yourself for the one you think you're stuck with.
As I run by the cemetery, I don't stop. Not because I'm afraid or because I'm in denial...but because I know that he'd want me to keep going. To keep moving. To keep living.
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