My brother is in town, and has come to this house twice so far. While for some a brother's visitation may be considered a time for celebration, I looked at it as an empty space waiting to be filled. I considered what I would bring to the table, and held out my hands in welcome, and I waited for what my brother chose to bring.
I brought the present. He brought the past.
For truly, I do not know my brother. I have had experiences with him in the past, some good, some not so good. But for the most part I recognize we are strangers, and have been such for many, many years. Unfortunately, he likes to think he knows me very well based on our childhood together. He has not walked with me through my life, hasn't even been privy to it, because he wasn't ever interested. He chose to approach me as he approached me this time....from a page that burned up years ago. A book now out of print, obsolete.
I find his relationship with me strange. I go to look through his eyes at me, his viewpoint. I find hostility, anger, an accusing finger. I take it back to self and ask, "What harm did I cause here to have such daggers thrown at me?" For if there is something I did to my brother that caused harm, I desire to move to heal it. My search comes up with nothing, (my practice is to be brutally honest with self), and until he speaks his truth and lets me know, there is nothing I can do. He has been angry a very long time.
He brought his son with him yesterday. I haven't seen my nephew for a few years now. My brother's son is nothing like his father, and brought to the table a quiet warmth and acceptance. Which is what I offered to him and my brother. My nephew and I fell into it and had a wonderful visit. We are on the same page. We sat on the couch and lifted each other up, encouraged dreams and possibilities. The magic of hope surrounded us. Our hearts were lifted in it's embrace. We both stood a little taller I think before we parted ways.
It has always been my hope, with a prayer, that a bridge be built, or repaired between me and my brother. My mother has told me that at one time, when we were little, he and I were so close we had our own language. My heart remembers. Yet as long as he remains on the other side of the broken bridge, refusing to cross, meeting me half way, I will have to wait for another day.
As yet...the prayer hangs in the air...unfulfilled, unanswered.