Brothers share a common bond. As such, they try to support each other in good times and bad.

 

At times, the right thing to do may be to let your brother stand on his own two feet to address his problems. However, in doing so, you always maintain your . . .

 

 

Brotherly Love

  

I wondered

what my ten-year-old brother had done,

as he sat at the kitchen table

with tears in his eyes,

a pained expression on his face,

and his fists clenched.

He seemed to be muttering

something

under his breath.

 

As I stood in the doorway,

I thought about approaching him,

but the look on his face

frightened me,

so I froze,

and did nothing.

 

Then he started

to bang on the table,

with such force,

it rocked back and forth.

 

“They’re coming to get me,”

he screamed.

“This can’t be happening.

Stop it! Stop it! Now!”

 

I wanted to yell,

“Who is coming?”

But I didn’t have the courage

to do so.

I just remained

silent.

 

Then his eyes met mine.

I started to look away,

but knew

that wasn’t the right thing to do.

 

So I moved toward him,

put my hand on his shoulder,

and tried to comfort him.

He stared at me,

In a way

that made

my twelve-year-old body quiver.

I shook in fear,

expecting the worst.

 

But it didn’t happen,

as I thought it might.

He grasped my hand,

held it tight,

and pulled me toward him.

 

We embraced—

an expression of love

that made us

both feel good.

And then we parted,

without uttering a word.

 

I never asked him

what had traumatized him,

and he didn’t talk

about the incident.

 

Neither of us

told our parents

what had occurred.

We laid the episode

to rest

and went on with our lives.

 

Eight years passed.

I sat beside my parents

and watched my brother,

dressed in cap and gown,

as he walked to the stage

in the high school gymnasium

to receive his diploma. 

 

He shook hands

with the principal,

who handed him

his treasured document,

and walked

off the stage.

 

As he came toward me,

he had tears in his eyes,

a pained expression on his face,

and his fists clenched

around his diploma.

He seemed to be muttering

something

under his breath.

 

Then he dropped the diploma

on the floor

and began to shake uncontrollably.

 

“They’re coming to get me,”

he screamed.

“This can’t be happening.

Stop it! Stop it! Now!”

 

The memory

of that day

eight years ago

returned

in the high school gymnasium.

“This can’t be happening,”

I moaned.

 

My parents sat stunned

at what had occurred.

They clasped hands

and said nothing.

 

My brother’s eyes

met mine,

as they had

at age ten—

pleading eyes,

begging for help.

 

I started

to move

in his direction.

but heard voices,

echoing in my head.

 

“You can’t help him.

And if you try,

you will never

see him again.”

 

“Never?”

 

“Yes. Never!”

 

Unable to move,

I whispered,

“I love you.”

 

Eight years later,

I began

my internship

at Monroe State Hospital

to become

a psychotherapist.

 

As I sat

next to my mentor,

a patient

entered the room.

Our eyes met,

and he murmured,

“I love you.”

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.