This will be the first time I've spoke of this publicly. Holding it in for so long, it's just made this eroded place in my heart. Like acid has been poured onto my beating heart and left to decay.

Everyday...every single day, I ask for some kind of sign. A meaning to something. A hint. Anything. But nothing.

My little brother died July 21, 2018. He was 52. He fell asleep and drifted away into wherever it is he's gone. And I haven't been the same since that day. I've come to the realization that I will never be the same.

My Mother has Alzheimer and it's progressed rapidly this year, and she still doesn't know her baby boy has passed. He was my Father's only son. Dad can't mourn for fear of upsetting my Mom. And then there's me. I mourn for three.

They scattered his ashes over our sanctuary for wildlife...where he would have wanted to be. Home. In the outdoors with nature. And every evening when the sun begins to set, I stand out on the back deck and pray I'll catch a glimpse of him walking the tree line...and I mourn. Again. For three.

His birthday is next month. November 11th. The closer it gets, the deeper my heart sinks. This will be the first year I haven't said "Happy Birthday" to him.

My brother has, and always will mean the absolute world to me. I just can't let him go. Time means nothing when your heart aches so much it literally hurts. And maybe, just maybe, saying all of this now will ease some of that pain. Maybe. Until then, I'll mourn for three.