8 days ago my brother died. He was way too young.
He was a party animal, lived la vie bohème, and was always bathing in a crowd of people — friends. For years and years, you could say, he courted death, yet I never saw it coming: when it came it caught me wholly unprepared. I don't know about him.
Life stops, then only tales remain. The mundane deeds of everyday, told and retold, become legends. I'm never going to see my brother grow up, it's over, his life is over and gone is the time when the roots of his tale were seeded: as an inadequate replacement, like it or not, I'm going to hear him grow into a local legend from mouth to mouth — a claim to fame of the saddest kind.
8 days ago, my youngest brother died. No big surprise it's been the worst week in my life. But I've got so many friends, and he's got so many friends, and we've got the most awesome family. Together, we really made each other strong enough to stand in the face of tragedy, strong enough to withstand the pain — forever scarred, but never giving in. Our family stands, and so do my brother's friends.