Jason Hazeley’s piece on the death of his sister (When my sister died, it wasn’t just her own childhood memories that disappeared. Mine did too, 24 February) took me right back to a vague memory of hurtling down a snowy hill on the big wooden sleigh that my father had made.
The real loss is that I can’t ask my big brother. He would have known which hill it was, the route we took, whether we drove there in the blue Reliant or the beige Morris, whether I was wearing the red woolly coat that was once his. I, too, have missing photos in my album of memories.
Dr Wendy Tagg
Uckfield, East Sussex
My brother died six years ago, but every day I still miss the memories of “not one but two childhoods” that died with him. I discovered that there is a big hole in our language.
When your parents die, you are an orphan. When your spouse dies, you are a widow/er. Your identity changes just as much when your sister or brother dies, but there isn’t a word that recognises you as the sibling who is now alone.
Judith Abbs
London
