If Only He Was Still Alive

I have had a guardian angel since my brother left and rejoined our Creator. I have felt the care, the guidance, and protection, the warmth he makes me feel on cold days, the coolness he makes me feel on dry nights when I feel down, even his simple reminders whenever I am out, exploring things I wish we could have explored together.

But, out of curiosity, will he be proud of me if he’s still alive? Will he tell me that I am living my life the way I should, not just existing merely for surviving?

I really hope he is proud of me, of the person that his sister has become. I pray that he’s glad seeing me pursue a career I used to cry about every night, I wonder if he sees how much difference I want to make for my students even if there are times when they tend to make me feel I am not at my best, ’cause if he does I wonder if it makes him smile. I wonder if he frowns about the times I make regretful decisions, I wonder if he’s in awe with how much risk I take for these decisions to work and if he just wants to laugh about it or just pull my hair for always being such the impulsive sister.

There are times I hurt our mother, days like that I tell her that I prayed and hoped that my brother should have been the one she’s left with, I think that’s a lesser burden than having to deal with me and my anxious, perplexing mind every day. I wonder if he gets mad about that, I wonder if he’s angry about the way I question why things happened the way they did.

It leaves me puzzled, thinking of how he feels with the way I resent our father, with the way I blame that man for a lot of unfortunate occurrences. I wonder if he’d forgive me for it, I wonder if he’d tell me how I should accept what’s already done, like what he did when he waited for our father to hold his hand before he took his final breath. I really wish I am as forgiving as him.

Days of rain have been the exclamation point to end this year, we both know how the rain makes me feel. I wonder if he sees it, how I’m trying so hard not to forget his voice, striving to relive happy memories. I wonder if he wants me to stop crying while writing this, heck I even wonder what he thinks of the things I write.

I tell myself that these are marvels I won’t get to fully comprehend because he’s gone and his timeline in this lifetime has run out. I hope that I get to give justice for the life he’s lived, one that’s full of bliss, one with good relationships built out of good faith, life he’s lived with all his heart until the moment he finally set his weakened heart to rest.

I love youI hope I never stopped telling you that while you were still alive, I always will.

My inability to feel gives me the ability to write.

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