I have a fairly large family:
three brothers, two half brothers and a half sister. My half sister and half brothers, who were quite a few years older, usually used to visit us at least once a year, although my younger half brother didn't visit for a few years when I was younger, for reasons I am still unsure about. When I was about eight or nine, he started visiting more often, so I got to know him a bit more. He would listen to me playing my guitar, he taught me how to punch properly, and would dance with me at family parties. He was, in my eyes at least, the best big brother ever.
He died when I was 14.
In the weeks after his death, through helping sort through the stuff cleared out from his flat, I think I got to know him more than I ever did before. Through this pile of things that he had left, I found out his tastes in music (which, surprisingly, included Shakira) films (shedloads of animé) and books. It was over a month after he died before his funeral (hit and run, took a few days to identify him, then there had to be an autopsy, which took a while.) I spent the two days before trawling around with my dad, checking the arrangements of things like flowers, music and eulogies. My family asked if I would play during the funeral; I played this, as I was learning it the last time I saw him. I haven't been able to play it since.
Although the time since he died can now be counted in years, I still miss him almost every day. In a way, I have only just come to terms with the fact that he isn't coming back, and I will never see him again. The greatest regret that I have is that I didn't get to know him better.
(Pretty strangers and promises, Wed 31 Dec 2008, 23:03, Reply)