Toward the end of the work day, the sky literally broke. What was a clear blue sky suddenly turned dark grey, and the lightning and thunder came. The tumultuous rain soon followed. And just my luck, I had no rain coat, no rain boots, no umbrella. I was lucky enough to have a nice colleague who walked me to the subway station with his umbrella. I finally can say I have good-hearted colleagues.

When I got out of the train at 83rd street, it was pouring, and I had to walk in the pouring rain for four blocks and arrived home completely drenched.

I somehow managed to bring a bunch of bubble wrap home from the office during the office move to re-purpose for our apartment move. I slowly started wrapping up fragile items in the apartment and taping them up, and suddenly out of nowhere, I thought about Ed. He’s only ever seen my Elmhurst apartment while I’ve been in New York, and he never saw this apartment. If he ever saw this apartment, he’d be appalled at how small it is. And if he saw my new and upcoming apartment building, he’d probably marvel at how nice it was and ask me how much we would be paying for it. And suddenly I found myself feeling so miserable, lamenting my dead brother and how he’d never see me move into a nice apartment near Columbus Circle and never visit this new and shiny apartment his little sister would be moving into.

We’re slowly approaching his death anniversary, so I guess it makes sense that I’d be thinking about him more and feeling sad at his absence in my life. There’s so much my brother missed out on. He never truly got to experience the joys of adulthood, of truly having ownership over anything, of truly trusting another human being the way I trust Chris, or even the way I trust my closest friends. But these are the moments I think of him most — when I’m at new and pivotal stages of life, whether it’s a new job or a new home, where I think… why can’t I share it with my Ed? Why can’t he be here to be happy for me? Or, more significantly, why can’t he be here to share these types of news with me about his life? He never moved out of the wretched house we grew up in. And that infuriates me.

This year, he would be turning 38. That fucking hurts.