Every year on January 22 when the sun hits a certain point in the sky, I think about Allan.
He was only 3 when he died and in my 7-year-old mind, my memories of him are scattered. Etched in my mind is feeding him salad with copious amounts of Thousand Island dressing, building backyard tents and giving him clothing choices for the day. While my other brother Warren was the well-behaved, middle sibling, Allan was my sidekick. Where ever I led, he followed and in the wake of our path we left broken housewares, water puddles and countless bruises that we laughed off.
Talking about him is difficult and in this internet age where you can find almost anybody online, I sometimes find myself doing a search for his name to prove that my brother existed and I finding nothing. This is my contribution.
I miss you Allan. I miss you more than words can describe.