Memories of Those Who Are No More
My Brother
Today would have been my brother’s birthday, but he is not here any more. He died nearly 12 years ago at the relatively young age of 58. And it’s a death that I have not come to terms with yet.
My brother and I were close, and I always envisaged that we would spend so much more time together when we both retired. When we both would live in the part of France we loved so much… now I live there without him.
The worst is, that because there was this expectation that we would have the time later, we both spent our time pursuing our work (he was a pretty famous archaeologist and me a scientist) and with out friends. Now I wish we had spent some more time together.
We both loved the mountains and when I visited him in Sheffield, where he was based, we would always go for a walk in the Peak District and end up in one of the many wonderful pubs.
Although my brother was 8 years older than me, he would be quite happy to play with me when I was a kid. I was a real tom-boy, rather than a girly girl and one of the favourite games we had was to make a car- track with carton and anything else we could find that went from the second floor of our house to the ground floor. Down the stairs we would let the matchbox-cars zoom.
We both also loved practical jokes, and when my brother came back home to visit (he lived in the UK and we lived still in the Netherlands) it would be very dangerous to use salt or sugar without checking first!
When I lived in London and he would come down, the evenings were long, and the pubs and restaurants visited many. He loved the good life and enjoyed sharing all that was good and fun.
And he was always there when things went wrong. When I fell of the table (I was trying to reach something) and broke my chin and tooth. When I broke my leg skiing (my “ham” story), and whenever I needed him.
Memories are what keeps those that departed alive. They are still with us and live through our memories.
