…with my brother

I was dead. My head was turned to the left, my body limp and I was holding my breath. You were on your knees, bent over me, your chubby little hands pressing on my chest, your voice trembling, calling my name. You’ve seen death before. You didn’t know exactly what it meant, but you’ve seen what it did to people. Not those who died, the ones who kept on living. You saw how they not only lost someone, but they lost the part of themselves that that someone was bringing out in them. You saw lights dimming and you heard laughter fading. You were afraid that, with me gone, the short life you’ve lived so far, the one I helped you fill with games, with sweets that were supposed to be all mine, but I’ve halved for you to have some too, with gentle squeezing of your cheeks and kissing of your hands; the life you’ve lived so far will turn into a rush of days, into nights spent too long in front of screens, cigarettes welding to your lips, into moments piling on to each other, but you won’t have the space to let them in. You were afraid that, with me gone, all the doors I’ve helped you open will close, and the key will be buried with me. I was still holding my breath and when I couldn’t hold it any longer, with a burst of laughter, I got up and caught you in my arms. You didn’t find it amusing. But you were too little to tell me that. And by the time you grew, the memory, while not forgotten, was covered in so many layers that you didn’t bother to dig for it.

In another world, you’d have grown old enough to learn the words and you would have told me how you felt. You would have said it wasn’t funny. That it was, in fact, cruel. That you didn’t understand why your heart had to break for me to laugh. That even if it might have been fun for one time, there was no need for it to go on for times uncounted. I would not laugh then. I would listen to you, holding my breath again, this time not for fun, but because I would be afraid that if I’d let it go, it would take with it everything I was holding on to. I would listen to you and my eyes would not meet yours, because as much as I would like to hold your gaze, all my strength would be spent on carrying my shame. I would hear you say that even if I didn’t die, the doors still closed and the key was lost. I would let your words drop on me like hot metal, leaving holes in my soul. I would not speak, and when you’d ask me to use my words, the ones I was always so proud of, I would, instead of spitting them out, swallow them like a bag of nails down my throat. But then I would talk. I would tell you that you were right, that it wasn’t funny. I didn’t laugh because it was. My laugh was the laugh one lets escape their mouth in shock. The shock of having their deepest horrors shattered, their weakest hopes confirmed. I would tell you that I wasn’t looking to have fun, but, in a wicked way, I was looking to have love. And I would confess my mistakes. I wouldn’t say, but I would let you see that hurting you was, in fact, hurting myself. You would extend a hand and when I would grab it, you would pull me in, the same way I did all those years ago. We would stay there, your embrace a cover on my soul’s cracks, my tears a cleanse on your memory’s stains.

In this world, you grew up and left home, only to come back for a visit; only to spend a few short hours with those who, without intending to, pushed you away. You didn’t hate, but it wasn’t the same love either. It was a version of itself, a faded one that was only fading away more with each time you chose to keep the distance. We blamed you, not because it was your fault, but because it was easy. You didn’t blame us, not because it wasn’t our fault, but because you understood we couldn’t help it. We lived and, when we couldn’t anymore, we left. And it was you, again, having to face death; but this time you didn’t lose more than some people. You kept yourself whole because there wasn’t anything more for you to lose.