|The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.)||The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.)||The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.)|
My younger brother who
My younger brother called last night. He had just been released from jail after four days because of a court screw up in not filing a dismissal on some paperwork which resulted in a bench warrant for his arrest.
My younger brother
My younger brother who
My younger brother who I consider beneath it all to be a kind of man of steel
My younger brother who I consider beneath it all to be a kind of man of steel who was damaged somehow and now has to suffer the karmic debt of a former self. But when he looks back at his former self, all he sees is this kid.
My younger brother who was raised primarily by my father was considered by my father to be “his child” to be raised “his way.” I felt, when told this by my mother a few years ago, that one of us, the most innocent, had been sacrificed to the monster that was my father. (I had my dealings with him too—but this is not about me, I don’t think. Except for the guilt.) As a consequence of being my father’s child, my younger brother was allowed to stay home from school when he wanted. He was allowed to drive at twelve. He was allowed to smoke in the house at thirteen, drop out of school at fourteen. He never had to have a job but he always had money. His friends invaded our house at all hours.
Then, it seemed like a life of privilege. No one saw the teeth, the trap of it. Or if they did, they pretended not to see it. Sacrifice has consequences. Sacrifice has consequences that you can ignore if you are desperate enough to commit the act of sacrificing someone in the first place.
My father chewed away for years, only stopping occasionally to snap and snarl at my older brother and me. We were all scarred by the years with him, but neither my older brother nor I (nor my mother for a time) were ripped apart daily and reborn nightly. We looked away.
I have a picture of my younger brother. It is one of my favorite images of him or of anyone. He was about six years old when it was taken, still a baby. It was Halloween, and we had come to my grandmother’s during lunch to dress up for the school parade. I was a witch. My older brother was a vampire. My younger brother had a bought costume: Superman. It was the kind that fitted over his clothes. It was made of the same cheap plastic material that they used to use to make garbage bags. It had a red mask. I don’t know why he picked that costume, except--