The Cellar - Suicide

So here we are on a hilltop, Spouse and I, marking the tenth anniversary of the death of my Brother. It is his birthday.
Jimi Hendrix on the speakers – what Brother was listening to as he waited for his overdose to take effect. Voodoo Child, a slight return. “If I don’t see you again in this world, I’ll meet you in the next one, and don’t be late!”. It’s what we listened to as his coffin disappeared in the crematorium.
Three shots of whisky, one each for me and Spouse, and one for Brother, to sprinkle on the hilltop where we scattered his ashes. We are a little early, it is lunchtime, and he took the pills that were to kill him in the evening, on this day ten years ago. In fact he didn’t die until the next morning.
I know that Brother made strenuous efforts that he would not be found by those that loved him, but by professionals. I know that the paramedics who found him cracked his ribs and ruptured his liver in their CPR efforts to save him. I feel for them, they worked so hard to save him.
I know that I shouldn't have googled the symptoms of overdosing on the drug he used: convulsions, fits, repeated heart failure. Certainly not drifting off into a happy cloud, that's for sure.
I know that Brother laid out all his personal papers, had put his finances in order as much as he could and laid it all out to make it easy for us. He didn’t think of all the other messy personal details of his life in his living space which his girlfriend and I had to tidy up, come to terms with, turn a blind eye to out of respect and love.
I know exactly where I was when I answered the phone to Older Brother, who anxiously checked that I was not alone, leading up to bad news … “Who is this about?” I interrupted, expecting to hear that a parent was in a bad way. “It’s Brother. He’s killed himself.” There is no way to convey that sick punch in the stomach of nausea. Shock.
I know that the hardest thing I have ever done was tell Father about Brother. Father had dementia and a very poor short term memory. “What were we talking about? Something terrible has happened. What is it?” “Yes, Father. Brother has killed himself”. “Oh! Our B! But he was lovely!”. Rinse. Repeat. Yet Father managed to hold this grim fact long enough to make an entry in the family Bible, with correct details, later, in heartbreakingly shaky handwriting. Then, mercifully he mostly forgot and we let him.
I know that Mother never recovered. Among her papers after she died I found a note in big, scrawly, old-age-desperate handwriting – “Remember Brother’s memorial!” . It’s still not sorted, but will be. Not important in itself. Mother envied Father: “At least he has forgotten.” She never did.
I know that Brother has not vanished from my life, nor from Older Brother’s. He is with us every day. Every step. “It’s just that there’s nothing new”, as Older Brother said.
I still cry. I still love him. I still miss him. Every day.
My only comfort, and cold comfort it is, is that it is what Brother wanted to do, and nothing ever was going to stop him from doing what he had decided to do. Stubborn. Bastard.