My Brother’s Keeper . . . A Deeper Family

He was my brother, 
yet I did not know how to love him well.

Born two months before my 11th birthday, 
he was a beautiful baby, and a fussy one. 
Colic, they said. All I know is, 
I spent many evenings walking around 
our dining room in the dark, 
gently singing into his ear while he wailed in pain. 
This small person had two hernia surgeries 
before he turned two, a harbinger of tough times ahead.

He was a different sort of little boy, 
easy-going in some ways, 
stiff and overwhelmed in others. 
Terrified by sudden noise, 
his own voice was often uncomfortably loud. 
He was fidgety yet owned observational skills 
that would occasionally astound us. 
He saw details, lots and lots of details. 
But he so often completely missed the big picture.

Sadly, he never did find it . . .


I am writing about one of the saddest pieces 
of my own family story today, 
my younger brother’s hard, hard life. 
And 1000 words cannot contain it. 

Will you join me over there for the rest of the story?


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Comments

  1. I just caught up on this – what most struck me was actually how well you did love him – your love for him comes across even more clearly than the helplessness you felt. Much love.

  2. Thank you, Tanya – for coming by and for leaving such kind words.

  3. So much heartache, and so much love. I am glad that you all had some answers in the last few years of his life. Lots of love to you…

  4. I am, too, Donna. Thanks for coming by – been missing you and hoping all is well.

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