When I was little, one of my most meaningful possessions in the world was a letter from my older, adult cousin Sarah who lived in California. I’d seen advertisements for pen-pals in the back of naturalist magazines, so as a 7-year-old it, it was the most amazing thing to me to have received a letter from someone I knew, especially from someone I knew who loves me.
My Dad’s brother and his family came back to visit us in Texas after moving years before. As the youngest among several older cousins, I took advantage of my inconsequential presence and purposefully lurked about, listening to grown-up conversations.
I don’t remember how Sarah and I agreed to write to another, but I do remember laying flat on the back seat of our VW Volkswagen on the way back from the post office, tearing into the envelope that held her precious words to me scripted on blue, butterflied stationary. I reread that letter all that morning and all that afternoon.
Since then, letters have always held a special place for me, like those I have from my father and from my mother. These, I pull very often from their special place, so I can see their handwriting and embrace myself in the cadence of their thoughts, love them for another day they are not with me.
Those are my parents’ letters, my sister’s letters..
Then there are letters from my brother… his, I approach with a scientific lens, still trying to make sense of him. With his letters, there is no careful rolling of the phrases in my mind, no pause to reflect and re-read. With his letters, there’s a shadow cast, reminders of a life I’m living, things I’m needing to do so I can turn away at a moments notice.
There’s no emotional investment with my brother’s letters. Not for me. Brief, shallow analysis. I’m satisfied knowing what I learn from them will come to me over time. I can only handle little doses of him at a time.
***
Notes..
Today, I went through his letters again. Not too long.. my objective for today was to get us down to the paint store for supplies. We paint in a few days.
I decided to sort this time:
– Spring 1985 – he’s working at Whataburger.
– Spring 1986 – army letter, letting the family know he’s reached his destination for more training.
– Spring 1988 – we receive our first letters that the world is going to end.
.. other letters.. 1988, 1991, telling me we had one more decade of the “demonic age.”
17 letters total. 2 stapled print-outs about “the end times,” with maps and instructions on where to go before the coming Apocalypse. 1 empty envelope. 1 envelope labeled “Garfield” with 3 comic strips clippings on said cat.
He wasn’t always like this, I only have theories.
What I know:
He frequently writes me, his youngest sister by 13 years, 2, 3, 5, 10 pages of instructions and detailed advice on living an orderly life. A godly life. I should wash my face before I go to bed, change my pillowcase, study hard, and if I’m tempted to look at boys, that’s normal and good, but there’s a time for it in my life, not now.
Communism gets mentioned in ’88. He takes the words of priest and skews them, fitting them into his narrative: the world is beyond redemption. That’s not what the priest sad at all.
The letters always end: share this letter with our sisters and with mom and dad.
As an adult:
I look back, and see an older brother who spoke to his captive audience with good intentions. But when he left home, he observed the world beyond his sheltered life and began to condemn it with god-like fervor.
Everyone became an enemy at some point.
Including with me, including Mom..
.. probably beginning with me, because I was his muse, his closest “confident” (although I didn’t ask for it), the pure little sister he wished he could duplicate and marry.
There’s a whole other story behind that.. it feels good to start thinking about this now.
Puro Love, Puro Clothespins 