May 30th

I close my car door, turn the key and press on the gas pedal. It's a short trip, but one too often left untaken. I pull into the quietness, leaves neatly piled high and grass freshly cut. I take the all too familiar path and pull off to the side as to not be in the way. I grab the flowers off the passenger seat and the shiniest penny from my collection on the dash. I slowly open my door, and make my way to my destination. As if the slower I walk the easier it will be. I see the dates, 23 years in all, with a dash between the years. Seeing his name printed boldly on top hits hard, as though it's the first time I've seen it. I gently place the flowers by his name, and sit next to the constant reminder. I place the penny on the worn cement, as he did so many years for my mother. I stare at his picture, my mouth frozen in time. No words good enough, no silence long enough for how I feel. Imagining how different things would be, if cancer weren't such a familiar word. I speak as though he's there; he's my best friend, my big brother, my whole world. I stand up, not wanting to leave, placing my fingers to my mouth; I kiss them, then gently place them on his headstone. I whisper, "Happy birthday," as I once again walk away.

I Relay so that maybe someone, someday will get one more birthday with their brother.