As is my habit, I perused Facebook this morning to catch up on the goings-on among my friends, as well as to skim news events worthy of more than a second glance. It took only a few minutes of scrolling my news feed to be told that today was “Happy Siblings Day.” Along with the reminders were pictures of happy siblings who clearly love one another and were glad to have each other as family. And while I enjoyed seeing my friends’ posts and pictures of brothers and sisters, I was also instantly reminded of the absence of that holiday in my own life. It’s not that I don’t have a brother – I do. One 4 years younger than I who lives in Chattanooga. But we might as well be “only” children. He and I have been estranged for most of our adult life due, in large part, to diametrically opposed choices each of us has made in this continuing journey called life.
The last time I saw my brother was when we buried my mother six years ago. Thrown together by necessity over the last two weeks of my mother’s life, and then at her graveside service, our interaction was polite but strained. Prior to those sad weeks, we had been in each other’s company only once, for less than fifteen minutes, between 2007 when we buried our father and our mother’s last weeks in January 2015.
Over the years I have periodically reached out to my brother hoping that “this time” it will be different, and that he and I can have a normal conversation (whatever that is), that the arguments won’t begin. My fruitless efforts have only reinforced what I already knew – that doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result was not only the definition of insanity, it was the perfect description of the “relationship” between my brother and myself.
Some will say it’s never too late to reconcile. But, in our case, I believe it is. The core of my brother’s ill will towards me is a memoir I wrote in 2011. Although our relationship was hanging by a thread already, the publication of that story was more than he could tolerate. The only coming back as far as my brother is concerned, and as he has told me more than once, is for me to “admit” the memoir is one big lie – something I cannot and will not do.
So, there we are.
I am sad that I don’t have a brother, but in reality the fact that he is related by blood to me is insufficient, in and of itself, to form a healthy and loving relationship. I wish him well – he has remarried after years of staying in a terrible marriage, and I hope his remaining years will bring him joy and peace. Perhaps in another life we will have a different relationship.
In closing this essay, I’ll end with a note about the accompanying picture. I had to search online for a current picture of my brother as I have very few of him, and none recent. Perhaps that little fact says everything.