Michael.

The new year didn’t begin at all like how I thought it would. I had intended to write my traditional last post of the year “highlighting” everything that happened throughout 2017, just like I always do. Because even though time passes, and we get older, and things change, we never really expect things to really change. Maybe we’ll start college in another state, or we’ll get a new job, or we’ll move to a new country, or we’ll get married. I had an amazing year. I got a great new job and I married the man I love. But then things can change in the blink of an eye, leaving you stunned and wondering what it was like to feel happy in the first place.

On Friday, December 29, 2017, my older brother, Michael Hamill, died. He was 26, like me. Finding out that I lost my brother is a memory that is going to be burned into my mind for the rest of my life. I was at work. I picked up the phone and heard my father heave a long sigh. And time seemed to slow, because I just knew that by the end of that sigh, nothing would be the same again. But I never imagined that it would be because I had lost my brother. Two days later, my oldest sister, Dawn, and I were down in Georgia. The funeral wasn’t until the following Saturday, but we wanted to be there and do whatever we could, even though we knew there wasn’t much. Wednesday, January 3 was my husband’s twenty-fifth birthday. It was also the day I saw my brother’s body for the first time.

At work the next two days, I might have seemed fine to the casual observer. I smiled a bit, and laughed a little, but the second I was left alone, all I could think about was Michael. I could feel his presence all around me, and the loss of him was crushing, like there was a big weight on my chest that I couldn’t remove. On the fifth, exactly a week after he died, I could only get through half the day. A picture of him on Instagram sent me spiraling. Just a picture

The next day, my father’s birthday, was my brother’s funeral. It was held at the Mormon church my family attended. Theo and I drove down together, followed by Dawn, and met up with our grandparents, who had flown down from Michigan. I had never been to a funeral before. I had been to a couple memorials, both held at Mormon churches, but never one with a viewing, and certainly never one for a family member; I had been unable to attend either my great-grandmother’s funeral when I was little, nor my uncle’s memorial in 2012.

At the funeral, we celebrated my brother’s life. We remembered him and we loved him. It was easily one of the most difficult days of my life, sitting in the front pew, directly in front of his casket, with my other siblings, my parents, and my grandparents. I listened to my grandmother give his eulogy and my mother speak about Michael, her firstborn child. I signed my name on a board, along with everyone else. I plucked a rose from his casket. I touched his hand, told him I loved him, and said goodbye.

It’s been almost three weeks since he died and two weeks since the funeral, and the crushing weight his absence has left hasn’t dissipated in the slightest. I miss him. I keep forgetting he’s not here anymore. I’m surrounded by people who look at me with pity for a moment, but then quickly change the subject, as if they’re afraid I’ll burst into tears on their shoulder. People ask probing questions under the guise of concern, but what really just seems like morbid curiosity. I stress about the amount of work I’ve missed. Life is continuing for everyone else but him. We plan our futures, plan the addition of two new guinea pigs, but he’s always there in the back of my mind. Always. I’m laughing at some joke Theo said, but then I’m passing Michael’s picture hanging in the hallway, and I stop, my eyes drawn immediately to his face. And the pain returns, burning even more than before.

There are nine of us siblings. Dawn, David, Emily, Michael, Ashlee, Sarah, Jesse, Jackson, and Mary. Nine. There was never supposed to be a world in which one of us didn’t exist. Or, at least, not for a very, very long time. But now one of us is gone and the rest of us have to try to find a way to move on without him. There will always be nine, but it’ll never be the same again.

Michael, I love you. I know I didn’t tell you that enough. I know we didn’t talk enough. There aren’t any pictures of just us two. I love you, and I miss you, and I want so badly to wake up and find out that this has all been a nightmare. I’m trying to keep on living my life, but it’s hard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I know I’ll see you again, but it’s hard to know that it’ll be a long time before that happens. You were such an amazing, kind, loving person. I feel so lucky to count you as my brother.

Michael Paul Hamill. April 22, 1991 - December 29, 2017.