6th January. Epiphany. Twelfth Night. The end of the festive season. Decorations down and back to work.

My brother, Anthony, would have been sixty one today.  From this brilliant, beautiful man – my only brother – I learned so much about how to be.  Except, possibly, how to grieve.  He did not equip me for that.  How to cope with missing him.  How to stop longing for the phone to ring and for it to be him.  The warmth in that voice of his, the love in it, the safety in it.

The way he gave things meaning.  Things he loved, you loved too.  Bach.  Beckett.  Joni, Jarrett.  His ridiculously infectious enthusiasm.  When you’ve had that in your life, it’s bewildering to have to endure its absence. When the sun has shone on you, like Jude Law’s Dickie on Matt Damon’s Ripley, and suddenly it’s not there, suddenly it’s cold – that’s what it’s like. It’s maddening – literally. It could make you lose your mind, lash out, kill.

Ah. Maybe he did teach me something about grief after all. And let’s not forget an entire essay on the subject, called Truly Madly Deeply. Yes. My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping. But I shall go on living.

So to all my loved ones, and to all of his – to all of us who knew the warmth of that particular sun and still yearn for it; to all of us who walk now with fire and frost, with the snow burning our hearts, a hug of mutual condolence. Yes, we’ve taken down the decorations. But we must go on living.

Photos: Brigitte Lacombe and Uli Weber. Fine words: Neruda.

In loving, sad, angry, grateful memory.