Bad

Those were his intials...how ironic...he was anything but.  I digress...it has been really bad lately.  To the point that I would have gone to see someone for professional help if I thought there was any use.  I am not a talker.  I am a silent griever.  I bottle it up and sometimes it gets loose and I feel like it is going to kill me.  I found his baby book.  I have it because it lists the details of his birth...details out mother didn't want him to find and read.  His parentage, in other words.  I wish she had just told him.  I wish I had told him when he was grown.  I wish I had told him what a gift he was in my life.  I wish I had told him he was mine in a way that the siblings I am genetically related to will never be.  Again, I wander off subject.  When I found that book and read passages that I, myself, had recorded about his first days and years, it broke me in a way that I cannot describe.  Those words brought back memories of the baby he was, the little boy he became and they stabbed my heart in a blatant reminder of all that I, all that everyone who loved him, has lost.  In my life, there has never been grief to compare to this.  I have lost my father and my sister, yet never have I felt so broken as this has left me.