My brother Geoff died too young, 39, back in the dismal days of the nineties when we still had dismal TV, appalling internet and Margaret Thatcher roamed the land. Every time I think of him, which seems to be a lot, I dont see the poor wheel chair bound cancer ridden brother whispering to me he could not bear the suffering much longer. I see the brother I conquered dragons with or faced down the countless evil foes that rummaged through our park. I see the skinny kid I stuck in goal so that I could pound footballs at. I see the brother I got drunk with trekked around the country with, suffered exposure with, paraded around London with…see the kid I grew up with.
Then yesterday, his birthday, I realised that if he had lived he would be almost as old as I am now nearly as cranky, a shade less wise than me 🙂 It was a shock it was an affront to the PeterPan image I have of him.
Either way he is my brother and I miss him terribly.