Twenty-eight days have passed since my littlest brother Luis died. An entire Black History Month later, and I still feel like Iron Man punched me in the groin.

Thank you to everyone who expressed their sorrow and condolences to our family. I'm truly sorry that I have not taken the time to thank you personally. Please understand that I'm not trying to appear mysterious or emotionally complex, not this time. During the funeral service and memorial held for Luis, I was at home. In my closet hung a freshly dry-cleaned suit and polished boots, but I never made it into that suit because I was in bed hugging my old Care-Bear and crying into my pillow.

I loved my little brother and I miss him. He was so funny and frustrating and I know I'll never have that again. I can't speak for how other people feel about their siblings but my brothers and sister are like my soul mates, if soul mates were required to be alternately wonderful and annoying in inverse proportions.

I've lost a whole world.

I am not religious, and I'm glad I'm not because if there was someone or something I thought I could blame for taking my brother...I would be lost in my own anger.

Luis is dead; Long live Luis.

I am left, we are left, to continue living. My heaven and hell are here, my paradise and paradise lost, the cost of having loved him, the debt for having lost him.

I wish everyone could have known him. He was so beautiful.