We sit with backs resting against the tattered couch we spent most of our adolescence planted to. Deep in conversation we are. He in grey sweat pants and a navy Roberto Cavalli t-shirt and I in overused black leggings and a cheap tank that I unashamedly parade with pride as if made by Balmain. Our bare feet reposed across the cold white tiles of the living room. Tiles reminiscent of Beverly Hills 1980’s opulence, tiles in a sharp white hue and marble like etchings encased with dark grey grout that now exude a subordinate state of worthlessness. A room so dated, ageing everything within its vicinity.
“Doctors say I have an irregular heartbeat.”
His seriousness is evident from the strain established firmly on his face and the way he combs through his drab brown hair with his right hand. I am immediately comforted to hear such words pass through his lips and I can’t help but give him a kind smile as I prepare to voice my own truths and demons with my anxiety.
But alas, t’was only a dream, even if it felt so undeniably real.
And though closeness was hardly palpable in the relationship between my brother and I growing up, despite constantly confiding my secret crushes with him, that was as deep as we got. This dream had me hypothesising, if our paths hadn’t separated and shredded beyond repair, is this the relationship we’d possess today? Having matured and grown with a new-found respect and need for the other, easily allotting time and space, making them a permanent fixture in your life. A familiar camaraderie with the ability to confess and find humble understanding.
Is this what actual siblings maintain?