Not too long ago I found the cache of photos Grandma left behind after she died. I'd seen many of them before, but this was the first opportunity I had to go through everything, and it surprised me to find a lot of pictures of my ancestors. It's interesting to scrutinize their faces, trying to find any trace of what would become part of me. I also found pictures in our old house and the apartment I lived in with my stepfather, and I never thought I would see that place again. I saw a picture of me with his weird fish tank, the one he put in a glass cooler that sustained itself until one of my brothers accidentally knocked it over and broke it. I also found pictures of that kitchen and even of the phone bench. Yes, phone bench, a bench where you are meant to sit when talking on the phone. The phone in question was a candlestick type. My stepfather was an asshole, but he also had very interesting parts of his life. He was a scientist. Did I tell you that before? A biologist to be specific. The last job he had was at a paint store, if that gives you any indication of his employability in his chosen profession.
But the thing that struck me most was seeing pictures of my Illinois siblings, three brothers. We didn't grow up together, exactly. I'm the oldest, and their father is different from mine. When I escaped that apartment, I'd lived with two of my brothers for years. Then I was on my own for a while before the other two and Mom moved in to escape my stepdad, too. Soon a third brother was born into that house, and they'd all moved back in with my stepdad in the town next door. At least until things went sour again, and they moved back in with us until their dad lured them to Crystal Lake to finish their upbringing. That third brother eventually moved back in with me and our grandparents . . . to escape his dad.
But I'd forgotten about those days when we were all living under the same roof, and our lives were different. Much different. I marvel at these pictures, at the innocence on their faces. Because they really did have good lives at some point. I had a good life at some point.
But I know how my brothers all turned out, and it actually twists the knife in my guts a little. Because the brightness in their eyes has died out, dulled by tragedy and just plain old life. They will never be as happy as they were back then. Neither will I, but unlike them, I had a small part to play in the destruction of their innocence.
Remember, I'm the oldest. As the oldest brother I felt it was necessary to terrorize them on occasion. It's what older brothers do.
I try to tell myself that the march of time is actually responsible. There would have been no way to maintain that innocence. William Blake wrote a book about comparisons between innocence and experience and how the latter must kill the former. The world's job is to make adults out of children. But I shouldn't have taken to my older brother duties so efficiently.
I think last night's essay might have gotten to me a little because I dreamed that I went back in time to visit my brothers back then. I told them I was Future Me, and I just wanted to hang out for a while. It felt good to watch them hang out and have carefree fun. Bright eyes and easy smiles. For a moment I almost told them what happened to them in their future. But that, too, would destroy some piece of their innocence.
Instead I settled back and watched them play.
Only three GFs remaining . . .
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