I’m playing ping-pong with my brother in our mother’s basement. He finesses a nasty spin; I slam the ball into the net. When I try to serve, I can’t get anything out of my hand. Mike beats the crap out of me every single game. I obsess over all the missed volleys and returns.
When I wake up, I tell my wife how I only dream about him on his birthday or on holidays, especially Christmas and Easter, when we’d gather at our childhood home for game after game.
Mike has been dead eight years. I wish I missed him more.