There is always spring

There is a lightness in March, a month that all those years ago was my brother going in for his first and straight forward, VHL related operation. I don't think I remember being worried about him. I was about to take my A-level exams, I was desperate for Steven Webster to notice me. I recall sitting in the Addenbrookes Concourse, a place I marvelled at because it had more food outlets in it than the whole of Gorleston, Great Yarmouth. We talked about those then routine and silly things that meant the world. I always found him so very easy to talk to. He never judged me, well I never felt judged. I wanted him to be proud of me but there was no need of that longing or to put any real effort in to do things to make that happen. Probably because he loved me in a very simple, big brother way. I loved him back with the comfortable and not over the top adoration that a little sister should. 

I remember his kindness, his quiet intelligence and louder curiosity. He smoked and looked good doing it. Because of a rare photo I often think of him juggling. He wore chino type trousers with T-shirt and shirt, he cared about his appearance but he looked effortlessly messy. I don't remember his voice, but it was a sensible deep, and, like me, he didn't seem to have fallen into a Norfolk accent despite living by the sea for most of his life. 

Such a short life. 

One he intended to live well. I know he had experienced a broken heart. He had laughed, danced, travelled, experimented, worried, cared and loved. At 22 he had done as much as he could. I was inspired by that, but afraid for a long time that I might not be able to live a life so full. 

My big sister said once, in a rather one sided argument that she regrets, within it a list of truths. One of those truth was that I felt I had to live two lives, his and mine. So true. I feel a little sad that she was already on a set path that she didn't know how to deviate from. She couldn't take that gift of knowing it's ok to be selfish. It's ok to live your life as you want to. To take risks and to fall and get back up again. She falls, or more so, she is tripped, over and over. Bruised each time and I would so love to help her heal. She gets up, don't get me wrong, but so often it seems to cost her more than most. 

Today, just a few away from his anniversary, I'm sitting in my home, in a good place mentally and emotionally and aware that he really would have been very proud of me. I can't help but wonder where he would have been. He'd have just turned 51 and perhaps he'd have been a dad. This thought brings me the most sadness, a bit of family we can't ever have. (We are quite confident he didn't sire any unknown.) But that way madness lies. 

As I drove home from choir yesterday, a very significant song came on. I sung along and tears fell at the lines. 'I am not alone, while my love is near me' I was thinking of my dad and then him. There love is always near me. 'So come the storms of winter and then the birds in Spring again. I have no fear of time'

My daughter, the same age as I was when he died, has just rolled next to me on the bed. 

How lucky I am. 

There is always spring