Time heals all wounds, it's a lie, I believe.
Scott Miller wrote that, while still with the V-Roys. Time doesn't heal all wounds. Time may help wounds. Time may conceal wounds, maybe. But it won't heal them.
I had considered drafting a long, wordy essay about grief or losing a loved one or something. My intentions were fine but I'd have been faking it. It's too personal and far too individual of a subject. You can't put a blanket over it. We all feel different things at different times. No one needs a book to learn how to properly grieve. One might think they do and maybe they get something out of it, maybe something in there applies to them. But it's a unique experience for everyone. Plus, I could never adequately do such a thing anyway. I still have all his things in my garage after nearly seven years. Just can't seem to get through all the damn t-shirts and toys and little gadgets and literally thousands of CDs and cassettes. Odd to even write that. It's just stuff. And it's all right out there cluttering my garage. Some day I'll get to it. Some day.

as time passes

As time passes, my brother's memory lingers. The hurt of loss is not as concentrated as it once was. It has been nearly six years now. I often feel neglectful to his memory. I feel like I'm not doing something that I should, though I really don't know what it is I'm not doing. His only son, my nephew, is the same age as my oldest son. I feel I could be more for him, and keep telling myself that as he gets older I can and will be. But 400 miles separates us and we only get down to visit family about every other month. But remembering a lost loved one is tricky. Time obviously helps the grief to get easier but that easing of grief brings the feeling of forgetting and neglect. I'm not sure a day passes without me thinking of him, though maybe some days it does. So odd and unnatural to lose a brother before his time.

cometbus

The name Aaron Cometbus crossed my head and I'm not sure why. One of those predicaments that it's best to follow and not question. Hunter was always trying to get me to read Cometbus. I'm not sure why I seldom appeased him. He was too good for me. My brother, and his writer/drummer friend. I read a few pages and moved on to something else, nothing or shooting hoops or re-re-reading damn Salinger as usual. Still, this name, Cometbus, it peaked into my head from nowhere, obviously brought about by the clear existence of the spirit of my brother. He's dead, he's not gone entirely. I'm not a religious, nor non-religious, nor even spiritual person per se, but he's around. He's around. I should read some Cometbus. I'm sure there's plenty in the boxes of his stuff out in my garage