Do people only ever really learn from their mistakes when it is all too late?

The untimely death of my brother forced me to re-assess the (lack of) time and attention I had given to him and to life. We had grown up with a passion for the world of the arts; indeed had forged our own genuine plans to be a part of that world together. But the early and unexpected loss of our mother affected us badly and altered our relationship. A baffling, complex illness he had developed in his youth escalated and served to close down even more doors between us. More family bereavements followed. On my side I became self- absorbed, steeped in procrastination, pettiness, blame and spite and wallowed in the tyranny of excessive work hours and an obsession with child-rearing which I would not relinquish. When he was still alive but gravely ill I had refused to learn and accept that life is too short to fritter away on futile concerns and personal slights. I had refused to learn the simple truths and solutions that make for worthwhile, fulfilled and loving lives. My narrative deals with the excruciating grief and guilt I felt at my brother’s death and the ice cold realisation of the waste of both our lives.