Journey Of A Lost Brother
The dull thud of wooden swords meeting, the boisterous giggles of young boys and the strum of a well-loved guitar is what fills my warmest memories of childhood. My father hoisting me up to his shoulders and showing me the world from above his perspective – in hopes that I may see it that way all on my own someday too. My eldest brothers running with me in whatever fantasy world I had created for that day. I remember the songs, the bright, light, flighty songs of a carefree lad who wanted to spread simple joy. I remember the stories, of great heroes, gods, the folly of man and punishable hubris. I remember the warmth, love that seemed boundless and unending. There were the four of us and our father – I, of course, being the youngest of the lot.
One by one we grew. My brothers began confiding in me their wishes of freedom and their dreams for the future. I had encouraged them then, having been a naïve fool to how much I’d mourn their absence truly and deeply. I’d often half-forget these late-night wishes and whispered dreams. Before long, not so unlike birds, my brothers had spread their wings and left the nest.
First, and most obviously, my eldest brother, Wilbur, and his old wonderous guitar left. He’d always secretly been my favourite. When he left, he made promises to return once he had made a proper name for himself and had sung for the Queen. Last I heard he lives about 3 days away from us, and yet he never visits. I couldn’t bear to look into his bedroom, without his guitar sitting in the far-right corner, propped against his bed, I knew the warmth of his songs were officially gone. No more was the soft strumming that filled us with relief and light after a stressful day of schooling, study or work. Now it was a suffocating silence accompanied by the cold draught only I seem to notice in the places he used to exist. He writes to our dad every other week, I wish he would write to me, even once.
Before long, the second of our merry bunch, Elliott, took off. He wished to become a simple farmer – quite different from Wilbur. My brother was not loud nor boisterous, but stories were his passion. He had decided to write while making his base living by selling crops and produce, ever sensible as he always has been. He only lives a half hour away, in the nearby farmlands. He never visits. He sends letters every Friday to our father, I wish he would write to me more than just on my birthday. With his absence the chills got stronger. The silence got louder. No longer were there the mutterings that drifted from our family library. No longer was there a nightly rant to Wilbur after he purposefully misquoted one of his favourite myths. No longer were there the dull thuds of a faux weapon hitting a fake dummy. And most importantly, there was no longer a brother that always ensured I was well versed on his favourite stories.
Then left my closest brother, Tobias, only a year older than myself. He’s left to learn to become a doctor. He always had an affinity for healing people, and he’d been so excited when he received the letter inviting him to the most prestigious medical school in the capitol. He writes me every two or three days. I wish he would not. Every time I hear of the people, and the places he has been, I feel the coldest chill in my bones. Imagine being caught in a blizzard soaking wet without any clothes, that’s how it feels. I feel miserable. He doesn’t need me, no one needs me. It does keep me from worrying about him, however. He’d been the most fragile of us in our infancy, always quick to tears, even if he wasn’t the one hurt, his empathy greatly outweighed those around us. He enjoyed prancing around in our gardens, picking flowers and helping our father collect the honey from our beehives. Now he’s moved on from me too. He lives four hours away. He never visits.
I stand in the hallway of my childhood shivering. My father stands in the kitchen brewing himself a pot of tea. Since my brothers’ departure he has seemed too at ease. I cannot understand how he cannot feel this debilitating cold that I can feel. It seeps in through every crack and crevice of our home where my brothers, his sons, had once existed and it feels like it’s tearing me apart.
I had assumed because I was feeling this way about my brother’s new and sudden absence my father must be too, but he seems so at ease, too at ease. I chose to leave without warning late one night, after overhearing my father converse with one of our neighbours in the kitchen, he wanted me to be gone I was certain, why else would he make remarks about me still being at home in such a confused tone?
I set off on an adventure to find my own way, I had no hope and no dreams, just a rucksack and instincts to guide me, in the dead of night unaware of the chaos I would leave in my wake.
©2022 Poppy B. Humble
Poppy B. Humble Writes 