It's my brother's birthday today. He's middle-aged and gray now. He should be independent, having his own life, standing on his own two feet. But he isn't. My brother is mentally handicapped, retarded as they used to call these cases not too long ago; many still do. I love my brother very much even though I am not really a part of his life anymore; haven't been for a long time now. Feeling guilty; yeah, still feeling guilty about that. My mum is the Atlas of the family. Her spine has been curved unnaturally because of that. Trying to lift my brother off the floor when he falls, when he passes out, when he's unwilling, even unable to move, or help her lift him.
My brother.
My brother.
I don't see where the 'my' comes in. I'm not doing anything towards his care anymore. Is he still 'my' brother? Has society imposed those possessive pronouns on us or do they actually mean something?
My brother loved to run. He would always run towards the gate of the house/ any house and head for the road, the cars, danger.
We were responsible for watching him, looking after him, protecting him from himself. Parents too busy working, working, working. Not their fault really; poverty dictates different laws on its citizens.
I must have been around twelve. We were staying at our grandparents' farmhouse. My grandpa used to have a good-natured donkey to get to his fields. That donkey was our entertainment. Pappou would put us on it and take us for rides. I thought my brother would enjoy going for a ride, too. Why not? He loved rides. I used to put him in an old, rusty wheelbarrow that was left around our yard and would push him on the dirt track next to our land. He always laughed; he was always happy.
My brother lasted two minutes on the donkey and then he leaned towards the side and fell off. His sense of balance had never been great, but as kids, you don't really pay attention to little details like that. 'Things could be different this time,' had crossed my mind.
My mum had to be called off the fields to take my brother to hospital. She was not happy. Maybe the leg was not broken after all, I thought. I mean, my brother was not crying, or yelling, or anything. Maybe he just fell, but everything was OK, anyway.
No. The leg got cold and my brother was in agony; I could see that. I could see that something had gone very wrong.
The grandparents could not be held responsible for the incident. They were just grandparents --what did they know anyway? They didn't live with him every day; they didn't really know him.
I was the one that was in charge; I should have known. I should have known better.
Now I know. I know better.
My brother was in full body cast for nine months. The leg was indeed broken in three places. As a result, his knee was left permanently bent just a little.
He could not run fast after that, despite the physiotherapy. He stopped running altogether not long after.
And then it happened.
(to be continued)
