I lost my eldest brother last week. I haven't known how (or whether) to write about it, kind of like how or whether to talk about it. He was sick as hell from terminal lung cancer, but what ended his life was a wacked out girlfriend with a poorly planned premeditated murder.
I worked for at least 12 years, coming and going, coming back, as a prison nurse. It was my favorite job. I've known many murderers and heard many stories. A big part of me wants to, and does, look at this from the perspective of clinically seasoned prison/psych nurse. Then it sneaks from around the corner and slaps me as sister.
I wasn't going to go home, I haven't been in more than 10 years, and only a grand total of 4 times since I joined the Army back in 1982. Military brats that grow up and join the military, many of us don't go back. I did go home though, in the company of my middle brother. We spent two days and nights with his daughter and her family in a wonderful condo on Panama City Beach. There was red tide going on and rip tide warnings my entire time there (like every one of the times I've been back to visit!) but still, seeing that magnificent Gulf Coast was so soothing.