When we were

younger, we spoke

our own language.

It would be

undecipherable to the

casual listener, but

it was our

own tongue, one

that only we

could understand. As

we grew older,

teachers would keep

us apart in

different classrooms, afraid

that we would

cheat on tests

by delving into

the other ones

mind to see

what they saw.

This was a

falsehood, but the

one thing that

has held true

to this day

is that we

feel each others

pain. I could

be miles away

from him and

have no way

of knowing what

he was doing,

but yet would

know with absolute

certainty that he

was in trouble.

This was the

case this week

when my left

eye started hurting

and parts of

me simply throbbed

in agony, yet

looked completely fine.

My head ached

and walking was

more difficult than

usual but I

could find no

cause. When my

mother called, she

told me that:

“Your brother has new symptoms. His eye is swollen and he’s having further complications. It may be new developments in his illness…” 

As she talked,

I felt this

immediate sense of

relief, followed by

a hollowing out

of grief. Relief

because the symptoms

were not my

own, grief over

him, even though

he did not

want it. An

ocean of time

separated him and

I, twenty years

of silence.  Yet,

even though I

no longer knew

who he was

and the life

he led, he

was still my

brother. Even though

the silence was

thick like the

mist over water,

an impenetrable fog,

I still loved

him. That night,

I lit a

candle and said

a short prayer:

“Instead of feeling my pain, feel my love for you. Instead of feeling ill, I hope you feel this.”

I hugged myself

tightly, hoping that

the hug and

the light it

held would be

strong enough to

make it through

the fog and

over the ocean

of time.