January - a sad start to a Year.

This is a sad start to a year; as sad as the start to 2014. We all have an individual family construct that makes the dynamic of our family different and distinct from each other.
My wider family is no exception. We are not perfect, have fights, issues and secrets like any other. I had hoped, after my Mum passed in 2013, that my Brother and I might become a little closer, connected with each other in a meaningful way. 
Yet this was not to be and was beyond my control to achieve. For a variety of reasons, he and his wife Hilde, became less and less visible in our life until they were almost unknown by my children.
On 4th January 2016, Hilde passed away at home, suddenly and without warning. John, who was out of the country at the time, called us to tell us a day later, to our shock and dismay.
A lot of soul searching starts when something like this happens and for us this was no different. We ran and re-ran conversations in our heads, wondered if we had done enough for her, spoke to her enough and on and on and on.
This morning was the funeral of Hilde Johansen Mitchell. It took place at Medway Crematorium, Blue Bell Hill at 9.30am. This is the same Crematorium where my Father and Mother are.
I gave a short (for me at least) family recollection as did Anna, one of her relatives from Norway. The music was lovely, there were a lot of people there to mark her passing, and it was a dignified and appropriate mark of her life and death.
My brother was dignified and restrained in his grief but, at one point, my heart broke for him. He was sat next to me, in the front of the Chapel in that place that marks out the close family from the rest; a demarcation line of sadness.
John was sat to my right, Lisa to my left as was Ed. At the end, when I had spoken as did the Reverend (who kindly came out of retirement to do this), the final song was playing ('Angel' by Sarah  Mclachlan) which was the signal that the funeral was over and it was time to go.
I looked over to John. He was sat in his stiff chair leaning forward. His eyes were cast down to the floor and he was unblinking. Still. Motionless. His frame, his face, his demeanour, was defeat personnified. He was sad, lonely, adrift from all he knew. To me, in that moment, in that place, I could see his inner turmoil, his inner wonder at how this had come to pass.
He looked small and sad and older than his years and my tears were for him more than for Hilde. That may sound bad, but my grief for her was that for someone totally beyond reach; out of this world and on a journey to  another.
My brother was here, real, next to me and should be reachable - yet he was out of reach in a totally different way. I wanted to hold him and tell him that I was here, that he was not alone.

But of course, at that moment; he was.