>> It’s your brother, C.

My older brother was a fright. He used to throw me down the stairs. Mostly for kicks. But I tormented him. Because that was my role. I must have done something particularly awful, although I don’t remember what it was, that time he went into my room and ripped up about twenty of my comic books. He had taken them out of the comic book cases, taken them out of the Mylar bags, and then ripped them up. We were good friends when we were kids. There’s a picture of the two of us on Christmas morning in matching blue denim suits. I love that picture. And even though we ripped on each other when we were older, that was also as it was supposed to be. He was jealous of me because I was smart and got most of mom’s attention. I was jealous of him because he was strong and got most of dad’s attention. But, as it was supposed to be, I looked up to him with a kind of frightened reverence; and he looked down on me with a kind of resentful and caring affection.

While he didn’t help me find my locker on my first day of high school, and while he pretended not to know me in the halls, he remained my secret protector. He, and his cronies I suppose, prevented a few boys my age, and a few times, from thrashing me.

When he was 17, he left home. I was 14. He didn’t tell me. There was no cataclysmic fight. There was no note. He was just gone. He wanted to remove himself from his, from our, family. But I was collateral damage. He didn’t completely disappear of course. Still, we haven’t seen each other in six or seven years. And even then, the last time, we acted like strangers. Neither of us could think of anything important to say to each other. And it was painful. It’s painful thinking of it now. I miss him terribly. But I’m not sure I would recognize him. So much time has passed. Maybe I miss a brother that isn’t there anymore. It feels like grief.

C., my brother, he just called. He’s coming to town this weekend. He’s bringing his oldest son (he has two). His oldest son, now 13, plays hockey and has a championship game here this weekend. When he called, he invited me to the game and then, miraculously, asked if they, if he and his son, could stay with me for the night.

My brother hasn’t asked me for anything in my whole life.

C., of course, doesn’t know about SnappedShots. He doesn’t know about my exile. He doesn’t know that it’s my anniversary. And he doesn’t know that going to the skating rink and watching my nephew play hockey will be the first time I’ve left my house farther than five minutes and without my dog, in a year.

And then he’s going to come back here. And my nephew too. And he’s going to spend the night and maybe we’ll even go out for brunch. And maybe even I’ll show them around. Yes. I think that would be very nice.

I’m going to have to clean. I’m going to have to buy some beer. I just wish I had my new camera for my nephew’s hockey game.

I don’t know how to feel. I’m so worried that we will still have nothing to say to each other. I’m so worried that after it all passes nothing important will have been said and that we will fill up the weekend with tidy adult pleasantries like strangers on a bus. I’m so worried that when it’s over and when he’s gone I still won’t have recognized, won’t have found my brother. And I’m so worried about hoping for anything more than that. But I’m excited too. And I can barely wait.

SS