I have been remembering my history with my brother and the times that were the best were the ones where we were around dirt and water and sand.
There were the roots of the tree near the front door that we dug up regularly to make roads for his matchbox cars.
There were the big rainstorms that poured thrilling cascades of water down our steep driveway to crash through our mud and leaf dams in the gutter.
There was the Connecticut beach that we shared with our cousins where we spent whole summers making exquisite drip castles.
I looked for striped Good Luck rocks. I said prayers for him. I have grown up in a world which assured me that the place hereafter can be trusted for its goodness and I choose to believe that.
Then I said prayers for the living: our family and especially, especially, his children.