This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

What kind of world is this? And what do you do about it? What do you do when the worst thing that can happen actually happens?

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

It's time for second chances. It's time to remake the world.

When I'm with him, there is someone with me in my house of grief, someone who knows its architecture as I do, who can walk with me, from room to sorrowful room, making the whole rambling structure of wind and emptiness not quite as scary, as lonely as it was before.

He smiles and takes his index finger and presses it to my lips, leaves it there until my heart lands on Jupiter: three seconds, then removes it, and heads back into the living room. Whoa - well, that was either the dorkiest or sexiest moment of my life, and I'm voting for sexy on account of my standing here dumbstruck and giddy, wondering if he did kiss me after all.

That's exactly it—I am crazy sad, and somewhere deep inside, all I want is to fly.