I still miss my brother.  Small things, odd times.  No more large and bulky letters, no more DVDs I will never play.  There's an ever decreasing pile of unsorted things in the hallway, things from his house, that we're gradually going through.  And putting away, or throwing out.  We will never need a laptop from 2004.  I no longer need a file to keep papers in.  In any case, most of the papers would be his letters anyway. 

And the horrible jagged intrusion, the rip of his death, heals.

But it doesn't, not really.  You think its OK. 

Then its not.