My brother died 25 years ago today.
Twenty five years feels like a significant length of time, even if in some ways it’s an arbitrary interval to mark. It has been close to a decade since another milestone, when David, who was 17 on January 9, 1995, had been gone longer than he was alive.
Perhaps there’s nothing significant about a quarter of a century, but this year’s anniversary prompted me to fly across the country to spend it with my mother, my other brother Andrew, and his family. It also prompted me to want to leave a record of some scattered thoughts.
So here they are.
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