I thought of my stepbrother.
And then I think of the pain in general. That growing rage that maybe even started before I knew what it was. When I was six years old, maybe, and my brother left. I hadn't known him that well- he was 12 years older than me. But I remember sitting in his room, spinning in his chairs. I remember when he broke his back and I had to limp around with a carrier. My father was angry, my mother always in tears, and I was ignored. I remember how I picked up his walker and limped with it, pretending to moan like he was. Everyone laughed, and I think after that moment, I tried to adopt it. I tried to be the walker, holding everyone up.
To see I loved my brother when I was little is an understatement. My dream as an eight year old girl was to have toes as big as his, to listen to heavy metal on my own. I don't remember him leaving, and I don't remember him returning, but I can't imagine how I felt. He was my whole world, and then he was gone. All the fuss and crying over him, all the worry, all the talk of him. It was all empty, and I can only remember my mother sitting in the guest room with candles lit around her. Any time I try to write about that time, I think I try to fill details in, but that's not the truth. The truth is that I almost forgot I had a brother. It's hard to tell how I felt or what I did to fill that void at that time, but here are the facts so clear to me now. My brother always caused a stir everywhere he went, and I was left in his wake. I was left while he was gone.
The other memories I have of my brother when I was a little girl are jittery and absent. I remember walking to his house after camp. How pathetic I must have looked carrying my paper sack as I sat downstairs, wanting only to talk to him. Instead, I was left with his girlfriend at time. He was always upstairs, working on his music. In his world. I hung out with his girlfriend more than I hung out with him. I remember spending time with her and her telling me that one day soon I would have a boyfriend, before I even remember worrying about having a boyfriend. My brother always tried to stay away from our family, even right after he came back home. We found out that he was in Texas for all of those months of worry, and when he returned he moved into a trailer an hour away. We hardly ever saw him, but then when he had his son, he was forced to see us more often, but he usually spent his time in his room listening to music.
My brother and I were never close until I was eighteen. He was thirty, and maybe that was finally when he was old enough to look out for me. It was too late.
Still,
And then I think of the pain in general. That growing rage that maybe even started before I knew what it was. When I was six years old, maybe, and my brother left. I hadn't known him that well- he was 12 years older than me. But I remember sitting in his room, spinning in his chairs. I remember when he broke his back and I had to limp around with a carrier. My father was angry, my mother always in tears, and I was ignored. I remember how I picked up his walker and limped with it, pretending to moan like he was. Everyone laughed, and I think after that moment, I tried to adopt it. I tried to be the walker, holding everyone up.
To see I loved my brother when I was little is an understatement. My dream as an eight year old girl was to have toes as big as his, to listen to heavy metal on my own. I don't remember him leaving, and I don't remember him returning, but I can't imagine how I felt. He was my whole world, and then he was gone. All the fuss and crying over him, all the worry, all the talk of him. It was all empty, and I can only remember my mother sitting in the guest room with candles lit around her. Any time I try to write about that time, I think I try to fill details in, but that's not the truth. The truth is that I almost forgot I had a brother. It's hard to tell how I felt or what I did to fill that void at that time, but here are the facts so clear to me now. My brother always caused a stir everywhere he went, and I was left in his wake. I was left while he was gone.
The other memories I have of my brother when I was a little girl are jittery and absent. I remember walking to his house after camp. How pathetic I must have looked carrying my paper sack as I sat downstairs, wanting only to talk to him. Instead, I was left with his girlfriend at time. He was always upstairs, working on his music. In his world. I hung out with his girlfriend more than I hung out with him. I remember spending time with her and her telling me that one day soon I would have a boyfriend, before I even remember worrying about having a boyfriend. My brother always tried to stay away from our family, even right after he came back home. We found out that he was in Texas for all of those months of worry, and when he returned he moved into a trailer an hour away. We hardly ever saw him, but then when he had his son, he was forced to see us more often, but he usually spent his time in his room listening to music.
My brother and I were never close until I was eighteen. He was thirty, and maybe that was finally when he was old enough to look out for me. It was too late.
Still,
