While absent-mindedly scrolling through my phone gallery, on one of those lazy Saturdays, my fingers screech to a stop. I’m reminded of our childhood. There we are as kids, standing side by side – a wide grin etched across both our faces, laughing about a joke I no longer remember. At ten and six years old, we are impatient to grow up. My brother stands a whole foot shorter than me, his buzz cut and my uneven bangs, the butt of all our jokes that summer.
Distance creates longing, not that I would ever admit that to him. Our calls grow less and less frequent, with every passing weekend. My room seems empty without his action figures and Lego blocks scattered on the floor, a living hazard. My conversations seem lonely without his endless unanswerable questions. My door remains locked without his attempts to barge in. My quiet seems too peaceful without his attempts to break the silence. My happiness remains only mine, without him to share it with.
I miss him. There, I admitted it. But I’ll never say the same to his face. The endless bickering, bantering and brawling. Life seems almost mundane without him to keep me on my toes. Our weekly car rides from school, each one of us sitting in our pre-assigned positions, quarrelling over who gets the aux. The snack drawer at college remains untouched. We no longer debate over the possession of chocolates and chips brought by unfeeling guests to ‘share.’ Jackets and T-shirts remain in their respective cupboards, stretched by intense tug-of-wars played for them. His room isn’t across my door anymore. Instead it is 2189 kilometers away.
I wonder if home seems less ‘homely’, with my constant absence. Or has that absence become the norm? Has my brother become accustomed to my absence? I fear I’ve become the sister with the suitcases, who visits twice a year only to disappear weeks later. Missed calls on both ends line our call history, as we immerse ourselves in our busy schedules; which don’t necessarily include each other. Other than the occasional meme and casual update, our messages seem devoid of its past vitality and familiarity. There is no one to blame, but the distance between us.
The fear of becoming strangers, of becoming awkward binds us, as we hesitantly ask questions on video call – “How was your day?” Followed by a “Fine, yours?” Exchanging casual pleasantries about the weather, instead of laughing away into the night, like we once did. The pixelated and blurry video calls do nothing to alleviate the longing for the younger version of us. The version that was attached at the hip, confiding secrets and debating about our favorite bands. (FYI, which he definitely copied from me.) Those blurry video calls are cut short by countless commitments, like his tuitions and my lectures. Sure, we are both busier. But have we become too busy for each other? I dread the day and the possibility that we might outgrow each other. I wonder if he feels the same way. Does he acutely feel the distance between us? Or has he become numb to the sensation?
It just isn’t the same. I’m living in a city, thousands of miles apart from the one we both grew up in. After sharing the same womb, we don’t share the same roof anymore. When I return home, will he still be the same? Will he be taller? Talk less? Go out more? Constant change defines the reality of growing up. I am not there to witness him change. To comfort him during the low’s and celebrate him during the high’s. To encourage dumb decisions and face our parent’s lectures and repercussions together.
My memories of us remain unmarked and motionless, while the present never slows down.
I must call him more often. I wonder if he is free now?
The initial dial tone hangs in the air for a minute. I suppose he is busy. But just as I reach for the bright, red button, the call connects. “Hello?” he initially asks. We talk for hours on end, our discussion dancing around his latest adventures at school, my horrendous attempt at snooker and our critique of the latest Marvel movie. Our conversation continues, interrupted by occasional pauses and the hum of background noise. But as the length of the call increases, we settle into the silence, which grows comfortable.
True to the nature of growing up; we have both changed as individuals and so has our dynamic. But, perhaps this is not so bad. Because even after any awkward calls or strained silences, I just know he will be waiting to pick me up from the airport when I return home.