Father grunted slightly as he read from the front page of The Daily. Mother just sat holding her empty coffee cup tightly. I watched. Observed, actually, because the whole thing was so surreal.

I hadn’t yet grasped the fact that he was gone. How he had gone was the most bewildering part.

Imagine, prom night, boutonniere securely in place on the lapel of his jacket. Strange that he had chosen not to wear the tux.

Father cut into my train of thought as he cleared his throat and started in media res, “trauma from being caught under the cowcatcher.” Mother wailed. Father ran to hold her.

I retreated to the attic and placed a disk on the old gramophone. I have no idea why I liked this thing, with CDs readily available, but the scratching amongst the tones soothed me. I needed comfort. Depression wanting desperately to set in. It’s not everyday you lose a brother.

I suppose if sorrow could be bought by avoirdupois, today we would have been billionaires.