Twenty three years passed this month since my older brother, Oded, died of a gunshot of his own Beretta gun. A second accident (the first made a hole in a wall and nothing more) or not - the answers disappeared with his last breath which spawned only questions, should-have-beens and might-have-beens. A period of time that was a blur between graduating high-school, having a first girlfriend, starting college and numbness. It was a time of forming barriers and taking other barriers down, of missing a beat, catching a breath and being stumped by the simple question whether I have any brothers or sisters. The great wall of China was being built with not many people who had the key to the gates, and who suffered for it the most. And on that wall, unspoken truths and spray-painted "I am OK".
Fairly, at the end of the day, I was. After all, I did finish high-school, got my Electrical Engineering degree, built a family of my own and carried on a normal life altered from how it would be if that day in May 1991 didn't end like it did. A lifetime ago. His lifetime ago.