my brother
impenetrable mascuclinity
He is gentle, stormy, and kind.
My brother has been up and down
my entire life. Up and down a flight of stone stairs to fetch and
carry groceries, to carry bags of salt for the pool, up to carry my
dad after he slipped and dislocated this thumb, down to fetch
my lunchbox I had left in the kitchen, up to leave for boarding
school, down when he moved back into the house and started at
my school, up carrying boxes of my dad’s things that he didn’t
need anymore.
This up and down shaped him.
His emotions like muscles were hardened, refined, restricted.
I didn’t see this happening, my own reality clouded by anxiety and a rigid focus on academics that left no room for anything else.
My brother, undeterred by this lack of space played every sport at
school, did everything that was asked of him,
and played the compliant son that he thought my dad wanted.
In return, love in the form of protection was offered.
Cameras were mounted atop the tall green fence
that bordered the property, private security was invested in,
curfews were strictly enforced, and each night my dad slept with
a gun beneath his pillow.
He, like our house, was impenetrable. The type of masculinity he
embodied had been passed down from his father, and his father
before him. He loved us in his absence, in strict rules and
regulations, and cool tones of disapproval. His love for my
mother came in wandering hands and arguments muffled by
closed doors. My brother learned to move within the boundaries
of this love whilst I trespassed every chance I had and then I left
them altogether.
He stayed behind.
Staying meant he was not only the gardener, pool boy, mechanic,
security guard, and driver, but also the carer.
He saw and attended to every need, sensing each vulnerability,
and responding not as my father would have,
but as we all wished he had.
With my mum. he watched as my dad got sicker and smaller.
While I danced in clubs and forgot, he measured out medication
and chose to remember. There was loss, grief, conversations that
will only ever be known to one, and acts that might remain
unspoken forever.
At 17, my brother watched my father die.
Moments later he called and told me about it on the phone. I lit
cigarette after cigarette, after cigarette until the carton was
empty and I finally had to focus on my shaking hands. All I could
see was the image of my brother standing over my dad as he left
even though he had really left weeks before. I saw him leading
my mum away into the spare bedroom, saw him calling the
undertakers, and then them carrying my dad out of the house as my
brother walked up those stairs one last time. I saw the empty space
where my dad had been my entire life.
And then
nothing.
Sitting at the back of the house I lit another cigarette and
focused on how it burned slowly as I breathed it in
and out.
In and out, up, and down.