I had a wonderful visit with my older brother recently. It is always a tender feeling to be with the one person who knows my beginning; the one person who traveled the same path in childhood.
I am amazed to look into his eyes and see a part of our parents and even myself. One glance into his eyes and I feel his love and compassion. His eyes say ‘I know’, and that is enough for me.
We know our story together and yet we each have our own interpretation. It is not uncommon for siblings to tell completely different tales of the same upbringing. We are all individuals with our own experiences.
Yet, ‘we know’. My brother is four years older than me. When our mother died, his eight-year-old self already had so many more memories and experiences than my four-year-old self. He knew.
Although I don’t recall us as kids, ever really talking about her death, he has been gracious with his memories through the years. Some of his memories have become mine. I’ll always be grateful for that.
Whenever I am fortunate enough to spend time with my brother, I feel comforted. As our eyes lock, we see our story flash by. Sometimes briefly and vague and sometimes, we stop to tell it again.
No one else in my life will ever share my story. He is my link to our past and my anchor to the future. He knows, and that is more than enough for me.