On the weekend I attended a wedding. Everything was beautiful, from the bride to the distant Melbourne cityscape bathed in gentle light behind her, the bridesmaids, the three year old page boy who curiously wandered about in a kilt. The retiring sun reflected off cheery lanterns and cheerier people. The clink of glasses, glistening wine, laughter, and the golden tones of a dancing double bass. Delectable food. Yet these beautiful things are not what remain with me now, a couple of days later. It is the face of a man who died a little over a year ago. His identical twin brother was at the wedding, and I sat at the same table. Every smile, laugh, twinkle in the eye brought back the memory his brother. A life that is no more. Yet somehow he was resurrected in every word and motion of his brother. I continually wanted to address him by the name of the dead man, to shake his hand, kiss his cheek and wonder what he had been up to for the last year. I was held back by the sadness and questioning deep in the brother’s eyes. He was in a merry mood for the beautiful wedding, but I imagine the pain of a dead twin is something that would be as near and natural as the intimacy of one who is living.