My brother is here, visiting from Israel. I'm always amazed when I meet him. He knows all these things about me, about us, about stuff we did as kids. He reminds me that yes, I was a kid once. We ate pancakes together and went to the beach, went shopping with granny and rolled our eyes at weird neurotic wackiness of it all. These are vague ghostlike memories in my mind, the kind oth thing that shows up in therapy more than anywhere else. And here he is, recalling it all, casually mentioning this that or the other event as though it were obvious and known to all. He was there. Like a character actor in a great movie, the one never mentioned the billboards but who makes all the difference.
I was not alone, it turns out. He waits for me to sneeze when I have my chocolate mousse. He ridicules my tardiness, he grumbles when I tell him what to do, and is gently surprised that I can cook ... And was with me at kundalini last night, shaking off the dustiness of the attic where he seems to store endless boxes full of memories and stories that strangely are also mine.
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