I park up next to my brother’s car. The white cover flaps in the breeze swooping in under the garage door. I launch myself at the car. I tear at the cover, my nails scraping on the paint beneath, my fingers tight with rage, with a wanting that will never go away. I wish everything was different. I wish he never died. I wish she could be mine. But wishing is for losers, and nothing will ever be the way I want it.
