time and space and tears

As I tried to compose myself enough to read the six pages of my presentation, I wondered: when will talking about my family not make me cry?

It was probably an unfair question because I was at the oral history conference where one person after another shared stories about loved ones they had lost either physically or mentally ... perhaps I was just drawn to those stories surely all of them couldn't have been about the same theme.

I was there talking about my quest to find out something about my grandmother's life before she came to California and met my grandfather ... etc.

I had written about the frustration and the hope and the holes that still plagued my story.

It seemed like an upbeat rendering with promise for the future. 

But looking out at the crowd that included my sister and cousin, all I could think about was my brother and the stories he wouldn't tell.

All we have left are what we know and our speculations. 

I don't know why, but that hurts.

So, when will it stop hurting?