Not a good day

September 25 is not a good day for me. Never. It was 32 years ago, September 25, 1979, when I lost my brother Arthur in a plane crash. No matter how many years go by, I recall every moment and every word when I received the call from my sister-in-law.
She asked me to come to her place, because she had something to tell my parents which she could not do.
I can also never forget when I told my parents the terrible news. I still hear my father's shouts of anguish and my mother's plaintive cries. My father never got over it. He died 4 years later.
Losing a loved one is a tragic event, and only people who have experienced it know the pain it causes inside. I've lost many friends over the years, and it is always sad. You lose a part of yourself, a part of your life, it is awful, but it cannot compare with the loss of a family member.
My brother Arthur and I were close. We could talk about things one can only discuss with someone close to you without feeling embarrassed or foolish. Things you share only with a brother (or sister if you're a woman). We used to sing and play the guitar together. Even though he was younger, he was the one who taught me the songs. He was the one with the talent for music and the better voice. He had a great sense of humor that was infectious. I've missed the years without him and I will miss him until the day I leave this plane of existence.
If there is an afterlife, I will see you again, my brother, and we will talk about our youth.