My nights are long, God, and I pile my frustrations absent-mindedly. My room is a growing library of pleas small and big— I”m losing my way in thoughts so untidy. But you are a quiet keeper— tip-toeing as I sleep. Post-it note tabs of what I already have and long list reminders of promises to come. You’ve written me books about the way you love me and placed them in between every-other layer so that I could never forget the details of how I came to be.
And I wake up to an unconscious trust, thinking that this is my personality, when you have spent days, hours, years formulating my peace.
Aren’t you good, the dearest to me.
I learned that a 6 hour time difference can create a disconnect
woven out of sunbeams and that
I feel farther away from you at 2 in the morning because I may have the moon
but you’ve got the sun and neither of us have each other.
I learned that Theodore Roosevelt
must have felt
like a broken statue when the light went from his life and that
Aristotle had a wife who loved him for his heart, not his brain,
and I realized that if you find
someone who cherishes your mind,
hold on tight and kiss them lots.
I learned that beaches in India are perfect places for castles.
And the sand is so hot, a fire-breathing dragon isn’t even needed
to guard the princess.
Sometimes having less is okay because three t-shirts and clean socks is really all you need
to watch the sunrise in Nepal.
I learned that caves of ice are waiting and perhaps
cabbages and kings are only important to people
who have read the same books.
I learned that love is defined best at night under a shared blanket
and that 11 months is a long time to go without a cup of darjeeling tea.
I learned that someone else’s bedroom walls can feel more like home
than my blankets and sheets and missing people doesn’t get any better
if they miss you too. I learned that it’s easier to say important things with a pen
and if you love someone correctly you will never be able to tell them
how important they are to you,
but that won’t stop you from trying
for the next 11 months
My parents rarely share their histories with me, but when they do, I cradle their stories with utmost tenderness, hoping that it isn’t too late for them to become a part of me.
It’s funny that after all these unruly years of hurrying into independence by distancing myself from my parents, I want so much to be like them.
Some mornings I have breakfast with my father and it’s nothing but ordinary. To be frank, sometimes it’s rather strained— (I don’t want white bread, he can’t understand why I won’t eat white bread. The coffee isn’t strong enough, I keep telling him I’ll make the coffee instead. Why would he make bacon, he knows if I have one strip, I’ll have ten.) He can be the most silent man alive, and I too, can withhold for ages if prompted. We never have much to talk about and I finish eating with an uncharacteristic swiftness before rushing off to get ready.
But this morning, for one reason or another, we started talking about mountains, and that led to a furtive, misty-eyed recollection of all the days he spent hiking during his youth. In excitement of our likeness, I shared my own adventures of getting lost in the dark, of hiking in the snow. I said, I love hiking too, unaware of the superfluity. He followed by saying, “of course you like hiking! Just like me and your mom. We’re all climbers.”
And I realized, his affinity for mountains is my affinity for mountains. His history is my history. I am unmistakably a wonderful composite of everything my parents are, and my own inclinations.
There should be no fear of differences or silence. There should be less mornings where we don’t share words.
The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me;
your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever.
Do not forsake the work of your hands.
I know your deeds, your hard work and your perseverance. I know that you cannot tolerate wicked people, that you have tested those who claim to be apostles but are not, and have found them false. You have persevered and have endured hardships for my name, and have not grown weary.
Yet I hold this against you: You have forsaken the love you had at first. Consider how far you have fallen! Repent and do the things you did at first. If you do not repent, I will come to you and remove your lampstand from its place. But you have this in your favor: You hate the practices of the Nicolaitans, which I also hate. Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give the right to eat from the tree of life, which is in the paradise of God.”
Just chatted with my brother for an hour about taxes and life after college. Even though I told him I was busy— he kept talking. He must miss me…
is this real life?
#truelove #sadsibling #senioritis