Blood matters

The other night at the opera Reuben whispered to my ear: "I would never sing that to my sister".
I giggled.
The picture of him on his knees proclaiming his borderline incestuous love was just hilarious.
Improbable Valentin to two impossible Marguerite(s).

And it's lucky. Because these two had for sure no healthy relationship.

But our lives aren't tragedy material either; at least not of the Goethe-worthy caliber. Faust hardly ever tells our story. Or does it? In any case its brotherly couple is just one extreme illustration in the ancestral book of family images. A classic one where hate and love speak the same language.
They speak though, even loudly at times.
In that respect - Valentin and Marguerite's relation singles out of most of the modern ones; these where reign silence and indifference. Sometimes balanced by a moment of complicity stolen at the end of a family dinner, or a shared laughter over some old baby picture.

The one he, Reuben, actually has.
The one I thought I would never have.

Many of my friends have privileged relationships with their siblings, and I envy them for that. The bond they share is beyond words; the intimacy - unrivaled. I always wanted to have an older brother who would look out for me (and provide me with friends to flirt with); an older sister I could confide in (and steal clothes from). Classic longing that wouldn't be worth talking about were it not for the fact that I am, and have been for almost 23 years now, a big sister.
And it seems like I am not doing a very good job.

My mom got pregnant with my half-brother when I was 10 years old. Until then I had actually never given a thought about any potential brother or sister. It made me happy and excited; she was supposed to be Aline, look up to me and blindly follow my lead. Even the ultra-sound had said so.
It turned out that Remi showed up on March 6, 1987. He was a little over 3kg. When my step dad called around 6 am to tell us (mamie had stayed the night with us; it was also her birthday) the news, I yelled to the phone: "Put him back, I don't want him!", dropped the phone and stormed out of the room.
Everything was forgotten when I saw his little shrimp head at the maternity. He was cute, fragile and ready to be taken care of.

I have lots of fond memories of our first few years together. At first I was a little scared to handle him but quickly learned how to change diapers, prepare formula and sterilize bottles. I was quite the little mom, and was awfully proud of it. I had to entertain Remi during his meals because he was such a picky, slow eater; I learned how to fake sneezing to make him burst out laughing and even recorded him one evening with all the family around.
Later I would come back from school, gulp down my lunch and play with him to the last minute before heading back for the afternoon. I would push him around on his fire truck; we would pretend to be cast away in a remote island after a storm; I would tickle him until he asked for mercy.
Things were not always as smooth though; when he turned 1 or so we began sharing the same room. He would throw me his slippers from his bed; giggle until midnight and fake sleeping when his dad would come in the room; tear down my posters from the wall; spill a bottle of black drawing ink on my comforter and a week worth of homework. I am sure he would deny everything today. I got upset so many times that my parents really started looking for a bigger place for us to move into.
Funnily enough he was devastated to get his own room.
It didn't last.

We stayed close, even living a hallway apart. He went to kindergarten, then to 1st grade. I accompanied him to his doctors appointments, read books to him, teased him about his girlfriends. It was a lot of fun.
I left home when I was 19 to go to school to Bordeaux. Came back after a year. Moved in my own apartment which was only a 10-minute walk away. He would stop by after school to do his homework (I promise that I never spilled anything on it); we would go the the movie theater together; we would even indulge sometimes in sleep-overs. He was slowly growing up; but still close, within reach.

He was 14 when I left for the US in 2001, and things were to change dramatically.
Of course it was meant to be. It's tough to maintain a distance relationship - especially for me. I pleaded guilty of the 'out of sight, out of mind' crime many times. But I never thought that even thousands of miles could do us wrong.
It did. My brother is now a grown up man that I hardly know. I cannot even think of him as a man, as annoying as it must be to him. In my eyes he is still 14; he doesn't drink, doesn't have sex and cannot have his heart broken. Yet he does, and he can but I don't know much about it. Only bits of information here and there extracted most of the time from my mom.
It hurts.
And still - it doesn't. I know this is the way life is supposed to be. Choosing to live your life far away from your roots comes with its loads of joys and sorrows.
Being here has brought me many satisfactions, and sentimental happiness.
But it drove me away from the only being I have known since its first cries, and that will always remain a regret.