MY BROTHER is dead. That might sound blunt, but there isn’t really a more pleasant way to put it. Although there is, because euphemisms for dying aren’t in short supply – I could say he’s passed away, he’s exchanged the transient for the permanent, he’s gone to a better place . . . but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels the way it is: my brother is dead. Gone. He’s not coming back. Ever.
We grew up together with our sister, Angela, in a small town in Overijssel in the Netherlands. Spent a happy youth with dear parents in a place where nasty things never happened. Peaceful, unruffled, satisfied. Swimming in the dam, playing with friends, fighting in the back garden, riding bicycles, wrestling – all the stuff carefree…