As I arrived I felt like I didn't belong there anymore. Truth is I didn't, the Spanish summer school bunch did. I had about 3 hours to kill in the library....so I figured I might as well walk up to the flat. I wasn't going to get madly depressed and I most certainly was too numb to cry , but I decided it wouldn't do me good after all. I felt too much like a stranger to be capable to feel in any way comforted by the 'old version of home'.
I couldn't get my brother out of my mind. I thought I should call him for his birthday, but I soon abandoned that thought. Truth is I didn't know what to say to him. Even more truthful is that I knew he didn't have anything to say to me either. His birthday usually coincided with my grandmother's death so my mum dragged us along to the funeral processions as if she had forgotten all about everything else. Truth is I think she always did. I used to sneak away with him to the deserted train station near the cemetery and go walk down on the railway to 'our spot'. We sat down, had some beers, had a laugh. The only rule was we wouldn't talk about stupid nor about serious things. We would just laugh. The thought that no one was there to sneak away with him would have broken me so I got rid of it as I sat down and typed my name into a nice, formal e-mail.
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