He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about the joy that he had been feeling days prior. He doesn't talk about his wife who stood by his side.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about the call he received that his brother was missing.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about the hours he sat on the edge of the bed he shared with his wife, playing with his watch. He doesn't talk about the lost sleep as he worried about his brother.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about how he stood in front of the window, wondering how much time there was left.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about the fear he had the following morning. He doesn't talk about how he knew.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about the confirmation that his brother was dead. He doesn't talk about the tears that fell rapidly from his eyes. He doesn't talk about the fact that he couldn't even comfort his wife.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about the pain. He doesn't talk about his silence that his wife tried to coax him out of.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about sleepless nights. He doesn't talk about his anger towards God.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about how he walked around in a daze. He doesn't talk about the fact that he never healed.
He doesn't talk about it.
He doesn't talk about it because Mark's death silenced him.