I don’t have any pictures of my brother. I went looking for
one today, because it’s his birthday and he’s nineteen and on people’s
birthdays you’re supposed to type out a lot of already-said words and make sure
social media sees them. Especially when it’s your brother.
But my half-hearted plan was foiled today because after a search
through albums of less-than-quality phone pictures I discovered that there’s
not a single one of my brother there. It makes sense, really. I don’t take many
photos of people, preferring to capture my books or my curtains or my trees or
the clouds. It’s mostly practical – clouds don’t complain that they look fat or
ugly and make you delete the picture. But the photos are really more for some
personal sense of aestheticism than preserving memories.
I can’t capture memories through a camera. It’s not my
medium. I have nothing more than a casual interest in photography and a healthy
appreciation for people who do communicate with a lens. But I can’t do it. I
use words.
My brother’s not around a lot. And it’s not his fault and
it’s not my fault, it’s just that life has a way of tugging people down different paths and while I’m worrying over my grades he’s worrying over what
to do for tomorrow’s breakfast. (sometimes I worry about his breakfast too.)
But I’m slowly learning that the world sees spending time with those you love
as a luxury and not a necessity. It’s true, our minds starve slower than our
bodies do, and using your paycheck to pay your utility bill is probably more
important than spending it on a ticket to a movie you’ve already seen.
So, because of the world’s hierarchy of priorities and
because of our conflicting interests, I don’t see my brother lots. It’s good
sometimes. For the better part of my life I've put him on a pedestal far higher
than anyone can reasonably live on. For my own sake I needed some distance,
some time, so that I could say things like, “This is a band I found on my own. They’re
really good, you should check them out. These are my friends, and they’re not
even your castoffs. How’s Moses doing? I miss you.”
And the last bit is true. I miss him. I miss him because I
know other people miss him too. Mom still talks about drinking coffee with him
in the mornings a lot. But honestly, the moment I see him I remember why he’s
gone. He’s his own person and he needs to learn that you can be true to
yourself even when you’re surrounded by people who love you and want your best.
And all these words well up within me, the ones I’m only able to say today, and
I end up saying nothing to him or saying it awkwardly or worse yet, saying
things I don’t mean. And the last thing that’s on my mind is taking a picture.
I don’t need a camera to remember you, Mark. You are an
iconoclastic soul, and you are the focal point of any room you enter. It’s not
the height, it’s not the hair, it’s the way you can remember lines from movies
we haven’t watched since we were four and seven. It’s your Doctor Nefario
impression. It’s the reason so many songs still belong to you even though
millions of other people listen to them every day. It’s why I reach for my
Bible when I wake up every morning because when we were kids you would bug me
about opening a book before I read it. It’s a million things that could never be
caught on film, and there’s really no need for them to be. I have a crappy, selective
memory but I remember so many things about you. How I always wanted to make you
laugh, because it seemed like I was returning the favor. You bring so much
laughter with you wherever you go. And I know that laughter often conceals a
broken heart and I can’t change that. But hearts heal and grow and reach out,
because love wasn’t meant to be alone. And the best thing ever is when the
hearts your heart is reaching out to love you back.
You’ve got it. You’ve got
the best thing ever.
Come visit any time, Brother. I’m still young enough to
always have the time. We’ll laugh and we’ll skirt around the elephants in the
room and one day we both might just heal from it all. I promise I won’t have to take a
picture to remember. My pictures never were much good anyway.
~Margaret
