The first time I saw my baby brother he was wrapped in a blue blanket, his skin looked like creamy velvet, and a tuft of orange hair stood up on his head. Yes, that’s right, orange. He was the loveliest thing I’d ever seen. Even prettier than my Raggedy Ann doll.
I was standing on the top landing of our Philadelphia row house when my father carried him up the stairs to his newly furnished nursery.
At that moment I decided I wanted to take care of him. At 3 ½ years old, taking care of him had no meaning beyond playing with him like another one of my dolls. But I loved looking at him and touching his soft skin. It was several months later when he began to rock his crib that I realized he would not always be adorable. The whole house creaked as the wheels traveled across the bedroom floor banging into walls as it went. Finally, my father screwed the legs to the floor. That stopped the movement, but not the creaking.
Years passed and we found that living with a tempestuous redhead would be a challenge. For me, it was more than that. His red hair and freckles got him loads of attention. No longer were my dimples and pretty dresses noticed first. His red hair always beat me to the punch. But it was his hair-trigger temper that upset my father. Daily fights on the way home from school made Dad fear that he would get a reputation as a bad kid. I tried stopping the battles but was not very successful.
The older he got, the less attractive the job of taking care of him became. Still, I liked being the older sister. When we went away to overnight camp, I checked on him every day. I helped Mom clean his room, and generally considered him partially my responsibility. That gave me permission to advise and criticize. I loved that part.
Time marched on. I left home for college, developed a worldview beyond the family, got married, had children, and generally followed the path expected of me.
My brother got married as well, and his wife took over the central position I considered mine alone. My dismissive attitude toward my new sister-in-law disappointed her. An only child, she looked forward to adopting me as an older sister. My resentment became more obvious than I realized. It took years for me to recognize the damage I’d done, to apologize, and to build a relationship. But the family was close, and my parents always expected us to maintain ties even though we lived miles apart and rarely had time together.
When my folks aged and needed institutional care, I was in charge. Those ten years were difficult. Relatives lived far away and were unable to help. I found out later that few families survive these times without criticism and alienation. Ours was no different. However, I remembered my father telling me that I should always treasure my relationship with my only brother. “He’s all you’ll have once Mom and I are gone.”
How right he was. Though our ties have been strained over the years, I would not trade my conversations with my brother for anything. We talk two and three times a week, trade memories, support one another, and share memories. Who else remembers Dad’s jokes and Uncle Joe and Aunt Mary’s house on the Jersey Shore? Who else can share the adventures of crabbing in the bay at Strathmere, and his first haircut on the porch of the log cabin? And who else remembers me as a teenager, a bride, and a new mother?
The history of our lives is charted in our memories. We recognize each other completely, know the roads traveled to become elders, and remember Dad’s quips, Mom’s recipes, the aunts, uncles, and cousins, alive and dead. No one can erase our lives if we hold on to our shared histories. We are alive to each other in an intimate way that cannot be replaced.
Perhaps this sentimental dedication is a bit overstated. Have I forgotten the fights when Mom and Dad left the house and I sat on his stomach to prevent getting punched? Have I lost the memory of kicking at his bedroom door in fury? No. That was all part of it as we look back and laugh.
Mending fences didn’t require hashing over past difficulties, but it did involve a hefty apology to my sister-in-law and a long period of building trust. Simply forgiving wasn’t enough to mend the tears I caused in the fabric of our relationship. Like cleaning a house, it’s not easy to put things right. But, over time wounds heal, and the new skin is stronger and more resilient.
So, let’s celebrate our siblings, forget past disagreements, and open our hearts to one another.
As Dad said, “We only have each other.”
I only have one living brother of the 3 I had in younger days. But I treasure my relationship with him and wouldn't trade him for the world.
Thinking of you, my sweet friend! Get better quickly! And no more falling.🥰Sooz