Memories from childhood are generally blurry.
Weirdly enough, I always remember the night of Christmas Eve 1983 more clearly than the memories around them. As this was the night when my little brother Mark died. Another victim of cot death.
I remember when my parents realised that he was no longer breathing. Then I remember me and my sister ending up in a neighbour's house. I don't remember being particularly worried about anything - I was barely four years old. I was enjoying the attention of the neighbours, to be honest.
And then we never saw him again. He was just gone.
I don't think I quite realised what had happened until years later. I remember that me and my sister got Mark's share of the presents too. Less than a year later, my brother Brian was born.
Nowadays, it's something I try not to think about too much. Deep down, I'm quite glad that I was too young to realise what had happened. I was actually quite aware of my mortality really early on in life (I believe I was about eight when I realised I was going to die one day and asked my gran about it - I think she told me not to be so ridiculous) so had I realised back then, I probably would have taken it far harder.
Even now though, when I DO think about it, I get teary. I wonder just how awful my parents felt about it. I wonder why it was HIM that died. I hate the fact I missed out on knowing a sibling.
Today, the 5th September, he would have been 27 years old, had he lived. What would he have been like?
I'll never know.
And that makes me unbelievably sad.
I hope, wherever he is now, he's happy.
Happy Birthday, little brother. xx