I normally don’t share my work due to the fear of letting others see what goes on through my mind. This time I decided that it might be time to share mine with my readers. The first of many hopefully. I hope you understand or somewhat feel the emotion behind what it is that I’m trying to convey. Thanks.
The Other Side
I was ten-years-old when I was told my older brother wouldn’t be coming back home for a while. Ten-years-old when I came into this world with two brothers by my side but only to find out farther down in life that one would be absent from my life. Indefinitely as they say.
My older brother was still alive and breathing though, just not a physical form at home. He was more than a thousand miles away from me, kept behind closed doors that made sure he’d never set one foot in the world where others were free to roam.
But what is free anymore? The concept of being able to go into the world without a care? Being able to see new people and go to new places? I guess he’d be able to do the former and see people in the same situation as him, but certainly not the latter.
“Your brother got into some trouble,” my parents told me one day. The thought didn’t cross my mind about what kind of trouble he could be in. I mean, being a little kid you can get in trouble for things as simple as not eating your veggies.
The only thing ten-year-old Sydnee could’ve been worried about at the time was which team she’d be on for baseball with the kids in her neighborhood or the misery of having to get up for school the next morning.
A part of me wonders if it would be easier if I didn’t love my brother. The way he grew attached to the people who might have been the cause for where he is rather than just staying with his family.
My big brother wasn’t so much as a physical being as he was this voice talking through the phone that I’d have to conjure a face with. Hearing the deep laughter and picturing what he looked like ever since he walked out the door. Only remembering his features from two visits that seemed so long ago.
How when the telephone rings every Saturday and Sunday I’m reminded that we aren’t just separated by thousands of miles of telephone wires but by electric fences and endless deserts that are adamant about keeping him locked in, as though he’s a caged animal.
How later on in life he’d never be able to see me set foot in high school or watch when I walked across the stage for my diploma. Or how I began my first day of college.
After everything that’s happened, nine years later and wondering where it all went wrong, I still ask, would it be best if I didn’t love him?