A Story For A Brother (Who Lives Very Far Away)

I thought of you yesterday, when it was cold and snowy, and I was Christmas shopping downtown. You, hours and miles and practically a whole other world away in Prague, but still shivering, like me, no doubt. The snow, soft, large flakes that stuck to my eyelashes on their way to the ground, reminded me of a time when I hardly knew you at all. A transition, from Texas to Michigan, and you got lost somehow in the move, faded away, blended into the new, unfamiliar background. You were blurred by the snow that fell that Christmas—the first snow we’d seen in seven years—and every Christmas thereafter. And we lived separate lives those first few years, you and I, connected by blood alone: Nick and Nick’s sister.

The snow, falling on the Harbor, rippled the dark water and made me think of Texas, the river, the Christmas when we all got Rollerblades, and the one when you got a Sega Genesis. I’d lie awake at night and listen to you play; the electric beeps and chimes of each new level drifting through the wall that separated our bedrooms sounded like quarters hitting the bottom of an empty tin, or a distant wind chime, swaying back and forth in the night. Sometimes, you’d yell with excitement. Others, curse with frustration. In the light of day, you’d let me have a turn, or watch, which I preferred, embarrassed to play because I might lose in front of you. I’d pass you the controller when a level got too hard, a double jump was needed, or a kick move that required a complicated combination of keys was necessary. “Here, do this for me,” I would say, and you did, while talking about Green Day, your love of Jazz not yet developed.

But in Michigan, we were separated by another room, or a hallway, in the second house, and I could no longer hear what you were doing at night, was no longer invited to sit with you during the day. There was no more river in which to play Olympics. No more good hiding places for Capture the Flag. Just flat land, a bare yard, a strip mall around the corner with discounted movies, and a mediocre diner that served rubbery eggs. You had your friends, I had mine, and our lives moved in separate directions, each of us becoming someone we’d never been, someone we no longer are.

I bought gifts in a fair trade store, earrings for a variety of girlfriends, as the snow kept falling outside. Dangling, turquoise circles made in India, shiny red squares from Peru. Wooden triangles, made in Kenya, made me smile and picture your face, the wide grin, your round, white head in the middle of six dark faces, laughing through a cloud of smoke in a Nairobi slum, one of many pictures. I was wearing the scarf you got me, carrying the purse, handmade in some African marketplace, material possessions that reflect your good taste, your consideration, your love. And it made me miss you, contemplating Kenyan jewelry, and thinking about how much has changed.

On the way home, I passed a restaurant with outdoor speakers. Small, white Christmas lights sparkled on lamp posts. White Christmas, performed in a high, female voice, broke the quiet snowfall and I thought of Christmas trees. Some ten or twelve feet tall, towering above our tiny family in the high-ceiling den of our San Antonio home, held up by ropes attached to patio door handles. Or smaller trees, in the corner of our Ann Arbor living room, and one in the basement as well. At first decorated with red chili pepper lights, and old, kindergarten classroom ornaments, our childhood faces smiling out at us after all these years. Then decorated by Mom alone, with red or white bows, and lights to match. Each of us coming home from different schools. I wrapped your presents in a cold bedroom, placed them all beneath the tree. We ate seafood, stuffed mushrooms, Italian bread.

And I thought of this year, a tree not yet purchased, decorations still in boxes stacked in the cold, narrow attic. I’ll wrap my gifts alone in my apartment, just two miles from the Harbor, where the snow hits the cold water and disappears. I’ll put them in my trunk, piled in paper bags from a local grocery store, and drive nine hours to get home. We’ll sit in front of the fire on Christmas Eve, Mom, Dad, Lizzy and I, open gifts like we always do, in between appetizer platters and black and white classic movies. But there will be no you. You, far away, living in Prague. The gifts we got you will reach you by plane. Your face, when you open them, we won’t see.

Outside my apartment door, I stopped with my keys and shopping bags in hand, and looked up into the falling snow. The sky, a dim, soft gray, was slowly turning black. A street lamp, blinking on, cast a soft glow across the road, and the snow sparkled and shined as it passed through the light. I turned the key in the door, hours and miles and so far away from where you now live, and shivering, realized just how much I love you.