Since you took your last breath, the Earth has spun on her axis 365 times and has traveled something like 584 million miles around the sun. More than 8,760 hours have passed since you’ve been gone and while the world literally moved on, I haven’t.
I hear your voice in my head like I just talked to you. I feel your presence like you’re in the next room, but you’re not. Maybe that’s why I haven’t let you go; because I still sense you close. Yet you shed this mortal coil and traveled to what comes next; I’m still here, we’re still here.
I thought of you today, day 365. Did I think of you the other 364? Many days I know I did but was it every day? You’re on my mind more in your absence than when you were here. I had a dream about you last night, I do that more too. How am I more aware of you in death than I was in life? You are my brother, you deserved more of my attention when you were here.
But you aren’t here. We had Easter and birthday parties and Thanksgiving and Christmas and you weren’t there glad-handing and making your presence known only to slip out unnoticed before the close of festivities. And still I heard your voice, sensed your presence, even though my worldly eyes never fell upon your ever familiar face. I know you were there, I know you are here. And yet, not.
The world has spun 365 times and traveled so far in space since your heart beat it’s last; it hasn’t been the same since.
End Transmission
