My Brother Died Yesterday and I Don't Know How To Feel About It

 My brother died yesterday. He was 62. Covid. 

I don't know how I feel. I'm mostly preoccupied with watching how everyone else is handling it. I think many of us are in shock, even though he wasn't in the best of health to begin with. I feel sad for him that he lived most of his life stressed out. It seemed like he could never catch a break. 

I feel drained emotionally, only at just the thought of possibly having to interact with family whom I haven't seen in a long time. I don't like wakes or funerals. They're so fucking depressing and unnecessary. My brother's spirit lives on. He's here. Why do I have to stand over a 6-foot deep hole in the ground and say all these bullshit prayers blah blah blah?  I can talk to my brother right here. I don't like fake. And that's what these things feel like - fake.

I don't know. 

I'm glad we celebrated my daughter's birthday on Sunday instead. Because my brother died on her actual birthday. 

I have to poop.

**

This is my very first canvas painting. My brother was with me when I painted it back in 2011. I was an absolute wreck. I'd been drinking (a lot). I was sobbing. I was anxious. So I painted. I recall feeling somewhat embarrassed to be painting in front of someone, but I couldn't care more than that. And it was Mike, my brother - he didn't care about what or how I was painting. He just cared about me. That's why he was there. To check on me. To sit with me. To love me. That's just what he did.