I was a very late talker-- or maybe a late English speaker--because before I spoke in a way that the rest of the world could understand, I did have my own language. Only one other person could understand it. I remember talking, seeing blank stares looking down and then turning to my brother, seeing the look of understanding in his eyes, and hearing him translate.
We were about this age.
But, the feeling that he would probably understand whatever I was trying to say never really changed. . .
Nine and a half month since we last spoke, nine months since I looked into his uncomprehending eyes and knew he was gone, nine months since I said, "Goodbye." Damn it's so hard to lose someone who knows your heart, remembers so many of the same little things like sitting on that fuzzy rug, not wanting to smile for a photographer who made you hold your hand in that strange, unnatural position. Like knowing the person sitting next to you felt the same way.
