flashquake Nonfiction flashquake |
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Those are the good memories of my older brother. Other memories threaten to crowd them out of my mind. They too are vivid, of him walking into the house sloppy drunk, arguing with our mother, nearly fighting with our father. By the time I graduated from college, my ears filled with stories of his drunken deeds, I sometimes felt that I hated him. The hate was not so much because he did such horrible things. I hated the fact that he was so weak, that he couldn’t reach that reservoir of strength that I knew he had within him. Instead, he gave in to self-pity and self-doubt. Years late, after our mother died, we sat alone in the house one night. We spoke—really spoke—for the first time in years. He and I were the middle children, not as quiet as the oldest child or as talkative as the youngest. We communicated somewhere in between. He broke the uncomfortable silence first. He said, “I know you’re still angry at me.” He was referring to the occasional letters that I had written to him over the years, angry letters, begging, demanding that he pull his life together. That night, I wasn’t angry at him and vehemently protested his statement. But many months later, when my heart had thawed and I could feel emotions other than grief, I knew he was right. The anger remained, like charcoal embers, deceptively dark and cool on the outside, scalding hot just under the surface. That night, he revealed in a quiet voice, all the reasons why he “needed” to drink. I disagreed with all of the reasons, but as he spoke, it was like someone wiped a dirty window, creating a clear spot. I could see and understand things about him that I hadn’t grasped before — his loneliness, his need for acceptance, his sense of failure. For a while guilt at my blindness overwhelmed my anger. We were a close family. In such a family, if one member falls from grace, does everyone fall? No, but it can feel that way as extended family members, neighbors and friends look down on a sibling. I was too old to ignore the truths in their words but I was sad that they might never know the boy who held my hand and helped me form a fist. A couple of years later, our father died and my brother came to the hospital drunk and later disappeared until the funeral. I felt disappointment, but not so much anger. In the aftermath of the funeral, in talking with my oldest and youngest brothers about their memories, the clear spot on the window grows. I also grow older and wiser about how life can shape people differently, even people who grow up under the same roof. I occasionally send him letters, not so angry or demanding anymore, and each night I pray for him to find his way in the world in his own unique way. I think the embers are cooling. Some have become ash and blown away. |
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