And then, my brother died

… and I, and his second wife and their children, no longer existed.

It was a painful and awful feeling to read the obituary of a brother and realize I was not mentioned as one of the survivors.
I contacted the newspaper which ran the obituary. Nope, I was not mentioned. They apologized.
Since, I once upon a time wrote obituaries for a daily, I understood the politics of obituaries, and, considering the source, there was no reason to look further for an explanation.

But he was still my little brother. The one who bought me a set of willow dishware at a tag sale after I had given my dishes to a family whose house had burned to the cellar hole.
The brother who made the best Bisquick pancakes ever by using about a pound of butter in which to fry them.

The brother who knew about things that went “kush”, and bent in the middle.

The brother who pounded his pillow with his head, chewed on his shirt, and was a regular pain in the ass. That brother.
The one I used to pound because I thought he was ignoring me. No, he wasn’t. He was having an absence seizure and I was an idiot.

My little brother. The  one who recognized by the fire alarm which trucks were going out, and to what kind of fire. The little kid who ran to the intersection and directed traffic so the trucks could travel safely.

The same little kid who played umpire so well at legion ball games, he was sometimes asked to be a base umpire when the regular guys couldn’t come.
That brother.

The one who couldn’t be a fireman, a cop or carry a gun because of his seizure disorder.

But you know where he worked? Do you know what he did with his dream to be part of law enforcement? He became a cook in a state penitentiary. He couldn’t be the police officer, the fireman, the EMT. But he could cook. So, he did.

That brother.

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