When planning to fly back to San Francisco, I usually call home the day before. So I left work today, completely drained from a stressful and hectic week of work travel, work drama, and event logistics planning insanity for our annual user conference next week. I felt really cloudy and didn’t want to think about anything. I just wanted to veg out and not do anything productive. So on my walk to the subway, I called the house number, realizing at that hour, my parents would likely not be home. But in the back of my mind, I thought, oh, that’s okay. Maybe Ed will answer, and I can talk to him.

Oh, crap. Ed’s not here anymore. What the hell is wrong with you? 

I hate these moments of complete brain failure when reality hits me, and I actually still think my brother is alive. It still hurts… even after all this time.