It’s two years since we last spoke, little brother – hard to believe it’s been so long.
Because every day that goes by, every hour, every minute, every second, breaks the record for time spent without you. Two years seems inconceivable.
That’s the bad hard-to-believe.
The good hard-to-believe is that it feels like less than two years because we think of you every day. That makes it easier: you’re still here in that sense: still making us laugh, still making us groan, still correcting our pathetically inadequate knowledge of World War I manoeuvres and tactics.
But still, we miss you. Terribly.