Two months.

It's been two months since my brother was murdered.  Since I received a call from my hysterical, crying mother.  2 months since his last breath.  In all honesty, it feels like yesterday that I was just planning the funeral and then attending the funeral.  I blinked and 2 months went back.  How did that happen? I thought by now I would have moved on and accepted his fate. I believe in that...fate.  He was destined from the day he was born to die on December 4 in this particular way. So, why can't I accept it? Why do I have to constantly remind myself that he's never going to call my phone again, that his kids don't see him every night, that he's not walking on earth but instead lying under the ground?

If I'm being honest with myself it's because I have so much guilt. Guilt that I don't tell anyone about.  I keep it locked inside.  So many times I bashed him about his decisions, actions and words.  I turned my back on him, my brother, my own flesh and blood.  The one who picked out my name.  Knowing I wasn't a good sister because I believed the demon his murderer wanted me to believe.  The guilt is eating me away inside and I want it to stop because it reminds me everyday of the person I turned my back on.

There were so many things I never got to tell him.  So many things he will never get to see.  And so so many unanswered questions I'll have to wait to find the answers too.

Sometimes I can feel him with me.  At the funeral, when his wife was speaking, he was there.  At the graveside when the rain stopped as soon as we left, that was definitely him.  When I was driving home he was in the seat beside me.  He is everywhere and nowhere.

Two months.  Before long it will be a year.