Since deciding to collect my thoughts here, in another cyber pool of self-indulgent musings, I have been browsing some of my old writing. This is painful, obviously, but not uninteresting. One of the pieces I tolerate surpisingly well was written when I was seventeen. It’s best described as a confession of guilt for neglecting my relationship with my brother; in hindsight, the guilt is probably what sweetens it. I am also struck that not much has changed. He and I continue to get on really well, without a deep emotional connection. I doubt this is a unique sibling dynamic, but the growing distance between us worries me. We live on opposite ends of Europe now, though it’s not very hard to see each other. We have more in common than we used to, since I followed his example of becoming a student-expat; we share an enthusiasm for UNIQLO and overpriced skincare. But as we get older, I continue to feel as if I am seeing him through glass that is growing foggier. For now, I am comforting myself with the fact that I am, at least, aware of this. In the meantime, I’ll think fondly of my teenage self, hoping that in a few years, I can look back at a twenty-something version of me with the same kindness – and a little less distance between my brother and myself.

This is what a younger me had to say:

Bluetooth bourbon

I woke rather suddenly to the gentle thud of something landing on my stomach. My brother’s voice seemed to come from far away, saying “That’s for you,” (or something to that effect – I was still half-asleep by the time he had left the room). Looking down, I noticed a small box resting on my ribcage. After a brief, confused examination, my drowsy mind recognised the package as containing a pair of Bluetooth earphones – the kind I had been hoping to buy for ages, though I had not yet seen my way to saving up for them.

It took another twenty minutes of coaxing myself out of bed and stumbling around with sleep dust in my eyes before I realised the enormity of what had just occurred. My brother, who had always been faithful to his role in my life as a force of wit and irritation, had just broken the sibling code; out of his own pocket, he had purchased an expensive gift and then (with no hint of irony or any suggestion of a catch) he had given it to me. No sharing involved. No mutually beneficial arrangement. A birthday present, just for me.

My initial response was one of surprise. It did not take long, however, for that to turn to guilt, and – unlike most scenarios which have put me to shame – this one was entirely unfamiliar; it came from an area of my life that, until then, I had neglected to explore.  

To be fair, taking blessings for granted can be alarmingly easy, but nowhere has this been more clear than in my sibling relationship. Being deeply familiar with someone can make one blind to their unique positive traits; I often look to friends for support and companionship, forgetting such things can be found without looking so far.  By giving me this gift, my brother indicated that he had been paying attention to me and of his own free will, had decided to do something he thought would make me happy. This was a shocking discovery which made me question my approach to sisterhood for the past seventeen years. All this time, we could have been talking – actually talking and listening to one another. Sharing problems, advice and so on. I don’t know life without my brother, but truthfully, I hardly know him. This disengagement is exacerbated by what I would call the sibling code of communication: sarcasm is mandatory and sincerity is just awkward. Honouring this code has become an excuse to avoid honest conversations with my brother and has allowed me to forget the kindness I owe him.

Shaken, I knew I had to make amends, and thus began a frantic hunt for a pot plant and a bottle of bourbon. These would be offered as belated twenty-first birthday presents. We were visiting him in the small Eastern European town where he studied, and I had forgotten to pack so much as a card before we left. Not great.

Later I decided  to compromise between sharing my feelings openly and avoiding the discomfort of in-person conversation. I wrote him a letter. I had not anticipated the catharsis this would bring, nor the letter I received from him via text a few days after our return – a letter which, I was embarrassed to find, brought me to tears. 

One of the most important things about our written exchange was the fact that I did not mention it to my mother, who usually has to endure detailed reports of my most minute worries. Something in me recognised that I needed to establish a connection with him independent of our parents. Many times I have made the mistake of trying to enlist my mother as peacekeeper in our childhood disputes; I learnt then that this was rarely a good idea, and considering that we are both supposedly more mature now, I had to communicate with him as an individual, not just the person with whom I share my parents. 

I doubt his gift was intended to launch me into a crisis of morality. Delighted as I am with the earphones, the real gift is harder to swallow; I think it is the reminder to be just a little bit more grateful for others – even for my brother.