The Unsaid Things

No family is perfect. It's a universal truth that somehow allows total strangers to understand each other's lives. We have our stories: the crazy Aunt who always seems to have an open bar following her or the Uncle who collects deer and alligator heads for wall decor. But, my story is a greater shade of blue. The main character is my brother, and I question why I call him that.

Instead of partying a night away with him, I opted for volleyball. A drunken phone call came later in the night, "where are you?" I gave a few replies then that phone call ended with, "Now I know exactly how dad feels." I see neither my dad nor my brother often, and they are well within their right to be mad. Just with no car and no phone calls from them, how am I supposed to know what hell to do?

My mother's attempt at recovering this relationship has been to promote interaction in the way of speech. Still, the usual words exchanged between us are "hello," "cool," and a quick-tempered "bye." Being a "mom," she's spotted the back bedroom with baby pictures of us, and I'm here writing as the maybe once brotherly eyes stare back.

And here comes what's been unsaid for twenty years. Every memory I have of my brother is aggressive, angry, selfish, fighting, stubborn, and pained. One exception being on my sixteenth birthday when he decided it was time I partied with him. Sure enough, I drank a Limon Bicardi bottle until it ran dry and spent the twighlight hours curled about a toilet. Hardly an experience of connection and meaningful relation. Looking all the way back from childhood boards games, pieces scattered about the room from being thrown by him, I can't remember us relating. Random friends have taken his place. They've done and tried more than him in his twenty year tenure, when I've known them just for two short years. It's not that I don't care about my brother, I do (otherwise why am I writing this). But where is his effort?...

Broken relationships are a part of life and certainly more will come in the future. But the question remains, how do I mend something that's so ripped apart? Our relationship is this jigsaw puzzle that's been swallowed by a dog, gnawed and slimed, then spit back out on hardwood floors. There is not a rippled edge I can being to piece together, and finding the corner pieces is simply impossible. Just a big mess of brown with the thought of "where do I begin?"