Yes, my brother is well. He has, at the age of 23, secured a steady (and well paying) job, he has (in concert with my father) purchased his first home, and he has established the beginnings of a family.
In a church service I attended last night, the pastor mentioned how in ancient times a man went through five quick transitional steps in order to facilitate the transition from boy to man. It’s funny to think of these five steps as they relate to my brother. In a short span of time, he knocked out four out of five of them—move out, finish vocational education, get a stable job, and start a family. The fifth and only step he has yet to take, according to ancient custom, is to have children.
And as I think about his influence in my own life, it is amazing how these responsibilities of his have changed him in my own eyes. I don’t know how I thought of my brother before all of this happened, but I know how I think of him now—one of the strongest and most dependable role models in my life. His every action is an inspiration. He picked up his goals in life and did work, so to speak.
This isn’t to say that he’s perfect by any means. Of the two of us, he is surely the one lacking in the general effectiveness of communication. Growing up with him, and my parents as well, was at times a nightmare. And I was the mediator of these communicational horrors.
We enjoy each other’s company now, my brother and I, something you’d never have believed in seeing us grow up. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs. Get out of my room! I hate you! Why won’t you just leave me alone? But he was as stubborn as I was (if not more) and the rages that I descended into would only fuel the fires of his rebellion. At last, when primal screams were my only remaining channel for expression, bringing the attention of my parents with ambulance speed; was anyone hurt? What was going on? Then, realizing the nature of the dispute (whatever it was) we would be told to get along, that they could hear me screaming from the street.
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My brother doesn’t call all that often. Even so, he is without a doubt the second most frequent of those on my call list. What he would never admit to, what neither of us would admit to, was that since I had moved out, up to the big world of Seattle, we had missed each other as kindred souls. His wife of a few months will tease him a bit, trying to expose me as his one soft spot. He has the heart to call me anyway, to let simple questions dissolve into conversations and catching up. Most often, he’s calling to invite me to a movie with his friends (which, let’s be honest, are my friends by now too) though I frequently decline due to prior obligations (work, mostly). If for nothing else than to talk for a bit, though, I’ve always appreciated the gesture.
Never more than a week ago, when he told me that back home, my cat was dying. Or sick, or something. They weren’t sure what was happening. Maybe it was just age, or maybe that growth on his back had been less than benign. In either case, he had stopped eating, and his balance was off. I took the news pretty well, I think, texting my roommate immediately. He had lost a family dog a few years earlier, so he could sympathize. In any case, I needed someone else to know. And when that wasn’t enough, I texted my ex-girlfriend, thinking that maybe she would have something valuable to say. I guess in the face of death, I needed to feel alive, something I do best in communion with others.
I had to stop for a while, to really consider what my pet actually meant to me. He was an integral part of my young life. That’s the way of pets and children, I suppose. But if I let this get to me, if I let the death of a pet bring me to the bigger questions, would I be considered overreacting? If I didn’t, would I be considered cold? In essence, I felt what I did and it doesn’t matter what I would be considered as.
He called again a few days ago, from my parents’ house to let me know that my cat was eating—still a little off balance, but eating. I hope this means that he was merely sick, is now better, and will be around for a few years yet. Granted, his age in concert with the average lifespan of a cat makes this less than likely. And at this point in my life, the death of my cat, though small and insignificant to some, would in fact be the death closest to home. That’s the double-edged sword of living apart from extended family. Little or no experience with death means little if any sorrow at the passing of family.
But if death is inevitable, then this is not a protective shield—it is a delay. And if my brother is my closest family member, how strongly will I feel his loss when it comes? If my brother goes before me, I intend to have a good deal to say about his effects in my life—of what he has taught me, and how he has loved. Two sides of the same coin, cut from the same stone. Because in the end, we’re a little bit of every cliché.
-To the memory of my brother, should I outlive him.
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