On the drive home today I got overwhelmed thinking about my brother. Nothing in particular, just about him. I miss him terribly, as strange as that is. But I got so sad thinking about him in Chicago, no longer just a quick jaunt away.
Suddenly, with great clarity, I remembered a piece I'd written for a creative writing journal back in college. I wrote it over three years ago, but I could visual the kind of paper it was scrawled on, my print handwriting and even certain phrases.
So I came home and pulled out my crate stuffed with college notebooks and dug around until I found it.
I'm not going to edit it, as hard as that will be. (As you can see, I've always been a big fan of the fragment and run-on. Who needs complete sentences?) It's the only thing I've ever written that's truly honest about him. The only thing that really encompassed my feelings for him.
And it's weird to read it now, now that so much has changed. The summer after I graduated, the summer after I wrote this, we got along famously. We joined a gym together and hung out all the time. For the first time in our lives, we were honest to goodness friends.
And we stayed as such. Sure, we still squabble. Hell, he can cause my tears faster than anyone else, but the friendship is grounded. It's there.
As they say, everyone else in my life may come or go, but I'll always have G. I'll thank God every second for that.
The little boy my brother was, and the man he would become - they're two different people.
G was a ruddy cheeked, sandy-haired ball of love, excitement, trust and a thirst for knowledge.
He was a child my mother and her friends, over afternoon ice tea, and in huddled adult whispers, would describe as "sensitive." Even though I followed him by three years, I can remember the times his eyes would fill with tears and his anger - always at being made to feel sad, alone, confused, left out, not good enough - his anger seemed to radiate out of him, flowing through his big hands, his soft boy belly, his legs. How I feared him at those times. I feared his flailing fists, but I also feared the glimpse I'd get of his insides. Why do you hurt so bad?
And me, a child, younger than he, I'd want to run away, cower from him, but I'd also want to go to him - grasp his big head and hold it to my nonexistent bosom. To soothe his hurts and pains. To kill everyone who teased him, who laughed at him - myself included.
But his laughter. Contagious. We'd cuddle under sheets and cushions - draped from sofa to table - in our tent. We'd watch Saturday morning cartoons and smell the pancakes bubbling in the kitchen.
On Christmas, I'd sneak into his room, hiding my eyes - stopping myself from peeking over the balcony at my delights. We'd savor every moment. The lights of the tree illuminating our gifts from Santa. The sound of plastic cars skidding over a track on the kitchen table. Little dishes and dolls. Puzzles and games - set up in the middle, designating them as shared gifts. Padded pajama feet running to the bedroom - our parents bedroom.
How many years would I live there without the scent of my father? Without his things? No guitar, no radio or plane parts. No John Denver on the stereo.
My mother, she began sleeping in his spot, and me in hers. And my brother? Hidden away in the haven of his bedroom, behind a computer screen. Holes in the walls - his anger no longer contained. How I loved him, but how I longed for him to be something he was not, or ever would be. I would cry at night. Cry because he hated me. He really did. The harsh words would fly down the hall. And sometimes the fists would follow. He'd push. Push me hard. Grab my arm, pinch me, kick me over. I would dream of killing him.
Did dad's leaving affect us that much? Did it break my brother's heart so badly that he had no more room to love his sister? Or did he always have contempt for me?
And today, today he's a big man. Some guy I don't even know. Does he remember with fondness the tents, pancakes, Christmases and bike races? Does he remember the home videos? The games with the cats. The block parties and summers at the lake. Does he remember that he taught me how to tie my shoe, how to read? Inside, Outside, Upside Down in the backseat, on the floor of my mom's green Oldsmobile.
Big brother bear, little sister bear. Mommy and Daddy. Living in a tree. But what happens when Daddy Bear's scent is gone, his closet becomes the "extra one" and brother and sister bear grow to hate, grow to indifference?
The notify thinks I'm a cop-out for retyping all my old junk.