Abide

I only cry when I see them together. I’m fine when I am with one or the other separately. It sneaks up on me, a sweet and achy homesickness for a time we can never live in again. Something about the way they are with each other brings me back to the way they were as kids, when we called the house with the purple front door home. I was very deliberate when they were growing up to do everything in my power to make sure that love took hold between the two of them, carefully pouring the cement in hopes of an unbreakable bond.

I’m so grateful, and sometimes amazed, we made it through the hard times. When I think back on my parenting, I wish I had loved on them more. I wish I had more clearly demonstrated my intention to be a shelter, a place where mistakes were accepted, where rescues were generously dispatched, where imperfections were celebrated. Instead, I was too worried about whether they were unknowingly slamming the door on bright futures, blemishing their permanent records with indelible marks, and if I’m being completely honest, lamenting what the latest drama would say about me.

I got in my own way a lot; one time too many when they were hurting in plain sight and I couldn’t see them because I was hurting too much myself, or couldn’t face my own limitations, couldn’t muster the courage to ask for help. And for those times they desperately and effectively hid their hurts; I wish my superpower had been x-ray vision. I wonder if I made a big enough deal in the moments of joy.

They are two very different people. I made a point of showing them that early and often, explaining how they fit together, how the strengths of one complimented the other. I’ll never forget the time at the kitchen table when I was worrying about my oldest, and my youngest said, “Mom. This is how he is.  He’ll figure it out. He always does.”  The faith he had in his brother was unyielding.  I wished I’d had that faith myself. In that moment I understood that they know each other in ways I will never know them.

Mostly what I want is the promise they will have each other when they no longer have me. I want them to remember who and how we were together and be able to talk about it with someone who can laugh at the inside jokes, who can tell the story of “that one time when . . .”, the person who can recall the names of the random people in the photographs, the one who can repeat by heart the burnished phrases that made us who we are.

But I can’t control what happens when I’m gone. I can’t even control what happens now, while I’m here.  We each own our relationships and choose to stay connected and hone them, or not.

This might just be why I cry when I see them together:  Tears of sadness that I can’t broker this brotherhood for them. Tears of hope that it will continue to flourish when I’m no longer able to bear witness.  Tears of joy that love may just have taken hold,