It's three years since my oldest brother died - our Paul. He would have been sixty six this August. No growing old for him. No wheelchairs or zimmer frames. No pension books or preliminary visits to residential homes. No memory loss or squeaky voice. He died, most unexpectedly, in his sleep and when his phone alarm went off to rouse him for work that fateful Monday morning, his hand did not reach out to stop it. I think of him often. He was a good man.