I spend a lot of time shuffling books along shelves, reorganizing largest to smallest, aligning their spines next to one another. While trying to stack all of the titles as beautifully as possible, one in particular stands out to me:

Dear Brother.

My insides numb to signal the words’ significance to me now; a reminder that my brother is no longer here. I continue reorganizing the books till eventually I cave in and open ‘Dear Brother’. Maybe it’s a book for someone who lost their brother just like me. But as I turn the pages and see dozens of questions ‘to get to know your brother better’, I feel physically ill as I process the fact my brother is no longer here. He is lost. And I never get to ask him these questions.

The counter bell dings and I throw the book back on the shelf before hurrying to smile at a customer who’s waving a copy of Dan Brown enthusiastically.

Recently, I listened to a podcast that joked about how it’s weird that we say we ‘lost’ someone after they die. ‘It’s not like they’re lost in a shopping centre!’ they laughed. I smiled along with the presenters because I never know how to phrase where my brother is or what happened to him, especially when I meet new people. And I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Just one brother.”

“And what does he do?”

“Oh… Well, he actually died last year,” I barely get the words out. Then, noticing the shock and sadness in their eyes, I try to console them with: “Yeah it is very sad, but I’m okay now.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever be ‘okay now’ and summarizing Rohan’s death to ‘it is very sad’ seems very wrong. But to be fair, everything about his ‘loss’ is very wrong. Like how I can’t mention him as much anymore because when I do people ask if he’s still alive or they seem uncomfortable because they know he’s not. His whole existence has become associated with death. I can’t share a funny encounter or thought that only he would understand. I can’t tell him about my accomplishments and my mess-ups. I can’t ask him how he is or taunt him for music recommendations. I can’t call him because nobody would answer.

I know people say ‘sorry for your loss’ but I feel it’s more suitable to say ‘sorry for his loss’. Because he is losing out on so many milestones and a future with all his loved ones. Remembering that hurts the most. And those reminders pop up when you least expect it like when I am on a flight to a new place he never got to visit or when I notice a book I think he’d like. Grief is weird because the passage of time doesn’t necessarily make anything easier; the longer that goes by, the further you get from them. And though the pain becomes more bearable, missing them never stops. Or missing the life that they missed.

To try keep my brother with me, now and again, I do things that he would enjoy. I browse his old music playlists and discover new songs. I drink Lattes and indulge in pizza. I read the book I think he’d choose and travel the roads he’d likely wander. I take risks by putting myself out there and chatting with new people. I consider what he would tell me to do if he were in my situation. I talk about him. I write to him and about him. That way, he is never lost. He is still Rohan.