My Brother and his Brother

A soft breeze was stirring the white curtain in front of the open balcony-door. The light and shadow were reflected in the glass on my brother’s picture, bringing him to life. He was looking at me, and he was smiling.

All I could see was Paul. And his movements.

“So it was you who put the flowers on Paul’s grave.”

I wasn’t really sure that I wanted to talk about Paul. You must understand that it’s hard for me. It’s still hard to think about him. But, we can give it a try. Since you’re here.

“Well, it just happened,” he replied. “I was just standing there thinking of Eternity and the stars and being in love, and …”

Eternity is in love with the productions of time.

“Adam didn’t die. But his wife did.”

“But the son, he died too,” I persisted.

“No, he survived. But he had severe—”

sorrow isn’t constant even the first day. It comes and goes, like waves on the shore. There may be shorter intervals between some waves, but, still, you get a break before the next one.

‘He’s dead! He’s dead,’ Paul cried. ‘All the flames … and now he’s dead!’

I can’t understand he’s dead.