A Talk With My Brother

In the town of Bethany, a small seaside tourist area, on the coast of Delaware, I first realized the firm relationship that had formed between my brother Richard and I. We had taken a long walk in the dewy morning, strolling along the shore, and attempting to bring back that peculiar communication we had shared as children, years ago. "Would you like a lifesaver?" he asked me. I took one. He then proceeded to begin a discussion on how quickly I had grown up in his own mind, how funny it seemed that we had broken into arguments through numerous trying phases, and how much older mom and pop appeared to him at that point. He had grown a moustache, several months prior to this, and as he smoothed it down, he told me about a fear he had been holding for a long while inside of him--of becoming a middle-aged man living a mediocre life and, and even more terrible fear, of hitting sixty and turning senile.

Richard's philosophy on life had always seemed more profound than my own and he seemed to suffer more than I, through periods of time when family crises cropped up. Although I could never totally comprehend his point of view, I saw him as a sensitive young man, struggling to develop a strong character through honesty, sensitivity, and spirituality. He would take a definite stand on a certain issue, and sit down with me to explain, with a kind of fervent anguish, how this certain thing or that certain thing was giving him a huge headache and a case of insomnia. Often, I remained silent during these monologues, letting him express himself for as long as he wished to. There were other occasions, less frequently, when I voiced my own opinion in a demanding way, but not quite so poignantly as Richard did. For example, on one particular night, while I sat at the kitchen table, Rick walked in to pour himself a bowl of Raisn Bran
for a late night snack. Immediately, I knew something was troubling him. "So what's up, Rick?", I asked him. "I can't seem to figure out the worth of going over and fighting the Viet Cong, you know? If I get drafted, how do you suppose I can justify putting a bullet into the gut of another living human being? It isn't a pretty thought.", he answered. He finally sat down beside me, pouring his milk over the cereal.
I noted his amber eyes becoming semi-moist and downcast. A kind of electrifying shiver went through me. At that very moment, I pictured him in the middle of an army of fighting young soldiers making his way through a muddy Vietnamese jungle drowning in guilt and carrying along with his rifle, the thought of senseless killing. It hit me hard. Here was a sensitive young adult male, caught up in the confusion that started a whole generation of protest and meditation on war. He was suffering. He might even be the victim of a tough, unanswerable system if government. He could very well be one of the ones fated to die. I told him that I thought he ought to consider becoming a conscientious objector, and even suggested the possibility of Canada, if the situation of getting drafted arose. He answered with the comment, "It's easy for you to say that. You don't have to be the one called chicken. Or the one who bravely has to go and fight." He was right. There wasn't much I could offer him that had any real solution behind it, I guess. He sat there suffering alone. Something he had done many times.

Through family trials, peer group pressures, brother-sister misunderstandings, Richard and I continually brought each other a strong sense of support. Richard had that capability of carrying many problems on his shoulders that I felt I did not know how to cope with.It seemed, in my own right, I was just a well-meaning sister who had a good, simple heart to understand him with. When we laughed together, it was related to a memorable experience in which we profoundly revealed ourselves in a simple way. We could eventually even laugh at it all, knowing that we had each other.

When family vacations came around at the seaside,
Rick and I had reached the age where we were asserting our own independence, feeling out how to strike out on our own. During two weeks in Bethany, he and I took daily walks on the beach, not only for the vigor in our steps, but also to acquire a respect for each other. We wrestled with the fact that we had weathered storms together and in the future would probably weather more. We promised each other, then, that we would always find the time to pick up the telephone, write out a letter, or drop in to see each other, when it was convenient. It gave me a great sense of pride in Richard as a brother. None could ever replace him.


***

Unfortunately, my brother was in an accident,
and was stricken with paralysis. This never deterred him from great conversation and a sharp intellect, just as I mention here in this essay.