For years after Ed’s passing, whenever the date of his death anniversary or his birthday would come, I’d get this sneaking feeling that he’d come visit me. It might be in my dreams. He might come to me in some other form, whether it’s through a message sent from someone, a ray of light through the window, or a gust of wind on a street. But when it would happen, I’d know it was him. Or at least, I’d think it was him. But most of all, I always longed to see him in my dreams because that would actually feel the most real. I tend to have extremely vivid dreams, so oftentimes when I am dreaming, it legitimately feels like it’s really happening. But as the years have gone on, I realize that this delusional thought that he will “visit” really is just that — a desired delusion of mine. And as each year passes, it makes me more and more sad. As each year passes, I get older and older, further away from the age I was when my brother died, further away from knowing what it was like to really know him and love him in the flesh.

In some ways, Ed was a really easy person to love. He was eager to please. He showed love and affection easily and eagerly. He is like the youngest, most innocent children of the world with their simple desires: he just wanted love, presence, and attention. If you gave him that, or even a smidgen of a semblance of that, he’d love you forever and always treat you well. But in other ways, he was a difficult person to love, and an especially hard person to get to know. Because of his depression and anxiety, it was hard to have a really deeply felt, thoughtful conversation with him that went beyond the surface. He also didn’t want to share that much with too many people because he was scared of being judged or misunderstood (frankly, that is for good reason because people in general really suck). It was almost impossible to have a continuous, free-flowing conversation with him. But it wasn’t because he didn’t want to; it was likely more that he didn’t know how to given his lack of socialization coupled with his depression and anxiety.

I’m about a half year away from turning 40. If life worked out the way it should have, Ed would be turning 46 in about a month. I was looking at the newly whitened hairs on my head yesterday morning, thinking about how today, I likely have more white hairs on my head than Ed did at 33 going on 34 before he died. Ed had a far more stressful and turbulent life than I did. He deserved more than what he got.

Every day, I think about all the privilege I have. Most of it is due to luck and just being born in a certain place to a certain family at a certain time. A little bit of it is due to my own hard work and diligence. Even though Ed and I were born into the same exact family in the same house, frankly I had more privilege than he did. I was the second born with less pressure. I was also born a girl, and as research has shown, families tend to almost always raise girls with more love, tenderness, and affection. I was also born 6.5 years after he was at a time when our parents’ financial situation was a lot more stable. When I got into my twenties, I started thinking about how unfair all that was: Ed never asked for any of that to be the case, yet he got the shit end of the stick. And I started feeling guilty for being treated better and being more respected by our parents. Why should I have ever been treated well at his expense? It never made any sense to me. To this day, it still fills me with fury, a deep seated anger that will likely never go away. I wish Ed had had just a tiny bit more privilege than he did so that he could’ve been treated a little better than he was — not just by our parents, but by society as a whole.

I wonder if Ed could talk to me now, what he’d say to me. I’m sure he’d be thrilled about Kaia, growing like a little weed both in size and in personality. He would likely marvel at the apartment in which I live and also gasp at how much I’m spending on said apartment. He’d applaud anything seemingly “indulgent” I’ve done for myself, as he always used to critique me for being “too cheap” with myself and never buying myself nice things or experiences. Funnily enough, he’d probably tell me he was happy that I got my laser treatments because sometimes, when you want something, you “don’t think about it so much and just do it.” He’d admire all the travel experiences I’ve had and tell me how brave I am to go to all these places. He would also probably tell me that he was happy and grateful I found the “right person” in Chris.

It still feels strange. Sometimes, I hear about people talking about their siblings even today, and I get this sad feeling because I know I can never talk about my own sibling and our experiences in the present tense. It’s like a different kind of loss now.