Month of L

Four

To My Sibling,

I wrote to you yesterday, trying to reach out. But you're on the other side of the world, it seems. What will it be if we leave for college in the same year? Are you excited? What do you really want from this? I will ask you this but it's a different answer every time.

Since we both know I can't say it, I wrote to you yesterday to show that I love you. And I love you, I love you, I love you but-- and this is a condition only afforded to people braver than me--you make me uncomfortable. When you shout at our parents, at the family, at me, at the whole human population for putting you where you are, I am uncomfortable. I want to help you but how do I help someone who doesn't want help?

So complain, complain, complain. You keep it up. I don't know how you still have air left to scream more.

I'm uncomfortable when you express yourself, when you're obnoxious (and we both know you are sometimes). I think it's because you have a voice much louder than mine. My ears aren't used to the sound of someone who doesn't care.

But that's just it, you do care. And you react the way you do because you hate how you care. I love it. You're my sibling with communication problems, and you're my uncomfortable love.

My hope for you is that you never change for anyone but yourself. If you find a better way to sit at a dining table or a way to hug without crushing, I will celebrate with you, I will mourn with you for the loss of your child spirit. But I will always want--as a masochist and someone who wants above all else your happiness--you to hug me until it feels like bruises are forming. Fuck what other people say, I want hyper you who jumps all around the house, you who somehow, somehow found comfort in holding my hand in the dark. 

And to my other sibling, the one who I thought I was the smartest person on Earth until they saw real smart people, and continues to simultaneously annoy me and charm me.

I love your cheesy jokes. I love our cheesy jokes. I hate your run-on jokes with yourself because you won't let me in on them and I don't understand.

If I leave, I feel like I will miss out on all of this, your growth and laughter. Our jokes, your terrible jokes.

You will be fine--I hope--without me. Mom and Dad are good to you, maybe too good at times. You will be fine under their care. I was, for the most part.

I will have to continue this later because my hands can't type any more today.