O Brother, Where Art Thou?

Mourning a dead brother is nothing unusual, but I mourn a living one. I carry in my wallet the picture of a five year old boy who has grown into a man of thirty, married, had a son of his own, and even divorced. He's my brother, Quentin.

My knowledge of my little brother is minimal. I remember him when he was four, pointing at the sky and saying "airplane!" at every bird, helicopter, and kite that flew by. I was sixteen then. Not a week goes by that I don't wonder what my brother looks like, what his voice sounds like, how tall he is, and what kind of man he is. Years ago, my stepsister (Quentin's sister) lost her pilot husband in an F16 accident. I couldn't attend the funeral. They wouldn't have known me. I read once online about a marathon that my brother ran. I read it the day after my own sixteen year old son won a cross country district championship and it made me cry to think that they are both runners.

Quentin has a son, my nephew, whom I have never seen. Sometimes I wonder if he likes baseball or books. Frankie is the same age as my youngest son and every Christmas I buy Frankie a gift and put it under the tree with the gifts for my other nine nieces and nephews. Every Christmas, I take Frankie's unopened gift to a foster child somewhere. You may be wondering why I've not seen my brother for 25 years. I suppose the simplest answer is that he probably does not consider himself my brother. He grew up not knowing the kids of his father's first marriage. It would seem unnatural to refer to someone he didn't grow up with as a brother or sister.

Yes, I've written letters. Most disappeared into a great void, but a few came back unopened. I have found his various email addresses over the years and those letters also go unanswered. I even know what town he lives in and now and then, I use my connections to find a current address. I once drove 300 miles to his house but didn't have the courage to knock on the door. I felt like a stalker. If he doesn't want to know me, what right have I to force him to?

Broken families are a part of life. I couldn't prevent this odd estrangement and I still hold out hope that one day I can change it. I think those two kids in the picture resemble. That's my five year old picture next to Quentin's. Yup, we're kin. But then again, maybe it's just my chili bowl haircut..